


Spectra Spiny Ant Eater

by GrumpyGhostOwl



Series: Battle of the Planets: 2163 [8]
Category: Battle of the Planets
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, Things-fall-down-go-"Boom!", Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5802556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyGhostOwl/pseuds/GrumpyGhostOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Chief Anderson is struck down by a heart attack, Mark realises that he could be facing the loss of another father. Co-authored by Mark Stalter with much help and support from Naa-Dei Nikoi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Bad Day at the Office

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a collaborative effort, written from three first person points of view: Mark (G-1), Princess (G-3) and Security Chief Anderson. Mark primarily focussed on his namesake while Grumpy worked on the other two and did the final edit. We started writing this in or around 2000, and finished up in 2006. That's way too long. It would be nice to think it was worth the wait. This story is archived with Mark's permission.
> 
> Our joint and several thanks to Naa-Dei Nikoi for her invaluable contribution on characterisation, dialogue and plot, particularly for the character of Dr Roland Galbraith who started out as a bit of an expy of one of her university lecturers and eventually took on a life of his own. Thanks to Sal, Dei, WyldKat, Shayron and Catherine for beta reading, to Ayako for medical advice, and to folks on the talker for help, encouragement, advice and near-infinite patience, especially during those times when we were raving on about monotremes. Thank you to Wyldkat for sharing local knowledge of San Francisco and surrounding areas as it was in the late 20th Century. Thank you to Shayron for technical advice about large organisations whose job it is to make things fall down, go 'boom!'

 

**PROLOGUE: Correspondence Received**  
  
  
From: Halloran, Katharine   
To: Anderson, David   
Subject: Overdue Physical  
  
  
Dear Sir  
  
Having left a total of four messages in your voice mail box, which have gone unanswered, and three with your admin officer at HQ, I remind you once again of your now way-overdue physical exam. You remember: the one you didn't show up for eight weeks ago.  
  
The one whose replacement appointment you cancelled, and whose subsequent replacement appointment you failed to attend.  
  
David, I need to monitor those stress levels of yours. I wasn't happy with your last set of test results, and I'm even less happy with what's starting to look like avoidance.  
  
Make another appointment, and KEEP IT this time, please.  
   
  
  
Kate  
  
Katharine Halloran, MD  
Chief Medical Officer  
Galaxy Security  
Center Neptune Science Center  
  
  
  
===========================================================================  
  
  
  
From: Anderson, David   
To: Halloran, Katharine   
Subject: RE: Overdue Physical  
  
> Dear Sir  
  
  
Ouch. I know you're mad when you address me as "sir."  
  
> I wasn't happy   
> with your last set of test results, and I'm even less happy with what's  
> starting to look like avoidance.  
  
Kate, I'd really like to be able to keep appointments. Unfortunately, Zoltar doesn't take things like this into account when he plans his attacks... or maybe he does. And when Zoltar isn't attacking, I seem to be forever stuck here at Headquarters, with these interminable Council sessions.  
  
I'll try to keep the next one. Especially after what happened to Bert. I notice you were too tactful to mention his heart attack. Will I see you at the funeral, Thursday?  
  
I'll have Gunny set up another time. I promise. I'll be at the ISO Tower most of this week, though, so don't expect any miracles.  
  
Say hi to the kids for me.  
  
David  
  
  
David Anderson, PhD  
Chief of Staff  
Galaxy Security  
  
  
  
==========================================================================  
  
  
  
From: Halloran, Katharine   
To: Anderson, David   
Subject: AGAIN?  
  
David  
  
I can't believe you missed your appointment this morning! This was the fourth one!  
  
You want to drop dead on me? Fine. Go ahead. Just remember the sigmoidoscope, buster, and the fact that the next time you and Bob play poker, I may just be waiting for you in the kitchen with a rubber glove.  
  
  
Kate  
  
  
Katharine Halloran, MD  
Chief Medical Officer  
Galaxy Security  
Center Neptune Science Center  
  
  
  
===========================================================================  
  
  
  
From: Anderson, David   
To: Halloran, Katharine   
Subject: RE: AGAIN?  
  
Kate,  
  
I'm sorry. I had a meeting that I couldn't reschedule. The Rigan Ambassador. You know how it is. You're absolutely right. I do need to see you and get checked out. I've been feeling miserable, lately, and the pressure is starting to get to me. I'm even snapping at the kids. I'm showing more physical signs of the stress, and it's starting to worry me.  
  
Have Gunny set another appointment. I WILL make this one. I mean it.  
  
BTW: I think the last time I was able to make one of Bob's poker nights was about three years ago and I don't see my schedule clearing any time  
soon.  
  
  
David  
  
  
David Anderson, PhD  
Chief of Staff  
Galaxy Security  
  
  
PS: I'm taking up golf when I retire. At least golf will provide me with a defensive weapon.  
  


  
  
**Chief Anderson**  
  
  
It's an insanely busy day.  
  
  
Sometimes, I wonder whether there's any such thing as a sanely busy day, and I imagine that maybe, somewhere in the Universe, there's somebody having one, but I know that whoever that lucky soul is, it isn't me.  
  
I stride out of the elevator car -- or rather, I try to -- my breath catches in my chest and I'm obliged to shorten my stride. Next to me, the coordinator of my security detail notices and gives me a look. I ignore her. Damn this stress. Damn the schedule that keeps me breaking doctor's appointments and missing proper meals and sleeping about half as much as I need. Damn Spectra for this stupid, needless, tragic war and damn me for not doing more to prevent it. Damn us all.  
  
Maybe we already are.  
  
Damned, that is.  
  
"Morning, sir," Gunnery Sergeant McAllister rumbles at me from his desk.  
  
There's a faint almost-flicker-twitch to his lips, a barely perceptible change to the ebony face as he nods towards me, the closest Miles McAllister gets to a smile in the mornings. I see him smile when his daughter phones, or when his wife drops by to take him to lunch. I see him smile when something absurd crosses his desk, or when something pleases him, but first thing in the morning, our traditional greeting is little more than a ghosting shadow of acknowledgement.  
  
"Morning, Gunny," I reply, as I always do.  
  
As I walk through the doorway, I hear Gunny get up and leave his scrupulously tidy lair of a desk. He's going to get my coffee, as he always does.  
  
Sometimes, I get the feeling that this whole office area is Gunny's territory. I'm just a blow-in, an ephemerid who comes and goes. The place I think of as my 'real' office is at Center Neptune, where Gunny has never set foot. Here at ISO HQ, the public face of Galaxy Security, Gunnery Sergeant McAllister is my personal administrative officer, the shining boss to my shield, the filter for my messages and the no-nonsense voice on the tele-comm who tells the media and the idly curious, in the nicest possible way, to go forth, be fruitful and multiply.  
  
I sit down at a desk too tidy to be truly mine. There's a certain amount of clutter building up, though, which happens whenever I spend more than a few days, here. Since the Battle of Riga, the Rigan forces have been running on the smell of an oily rag. Whilst they did manage to repel the Spectran invasion force, they did so at a terrible price, including Cronus' assassination, which haunts me still. The Ambassador is here, canvassing and lobbying for more aid, more patrols, and more G-Force -- especially more G-Force -- and while I'd love to be able to give them what they need, our own resources are being sorely stretched.  
  
Today, I'm only here for a brief, final meeting with His Excellency Elharn Irazi before we each go our respective ways: he back to Riga and I back to Center Neptune. There's a potential disaster brewing in Antarctica and I really must keep this brief.  
  
A hulking shadow fills the doorway: Gunny, with my coffee grasped in one massive hand.  
  
"Thank you," I say, accepting the coffee. My drug of choice. Coffee is a funny thing: the plant only seems to flourish in certain high altitude environments here on Earth. A few of the terraformed colonies have attempted to produce crops, and so far, they've managed to come up with a product that could only be described as 'inferior.' Off world, the price has skyrocketed, and supplies on Earth itself are becoming scarce due to the demands of the prodigious export market and the continuing depredations of this war. It's a wonder we don't have to go to the Council Appropriations Committee for our coffee budget.  
  
"I hear they're seconding Professor Winters to the Science Director's job," Gunny says.  
  
"I approved it yesterday," I say, "and with Bert hardly cold in his grave," I add, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.  
  
"Something to do with a war, sir," Gunny says, then turns and stalks out of the room.  
  
There's one secretary Jason won't be flirting with.  
  
Jason... I got the report back from his instructor, yesterday. He passed his first aid refresher with flying colours -- impressed the hell out of everyone, but of course, there was the inevitable comment about his smart mouth and his attitude.  
  
I check my watch, and sip at the coffee. After the first couple of mouthfuls, I hardly taste it. I go over my meeting notes, and notice the tightness in my head turning into a pounding headache. I put the cup down and massage my temples, to no avail. There's aspirin in my desk drawer, and I use the coffee to wash it down.  
  
The headache gets worse before it gets better, and the weariness hangs like lead weights behind my eyes, dragging me down into a pit of administrative quicksand that smells like coffee and paperwork.  
  
I breathe, and my lungs are like wet paper. This is what stress will do to a man my age, even a fit man, and I hate the war for doing this to me, and my body for betraying me this way. With a twinge of guilt, I remember that I'm alive and whole, and that there are lot of men who will never get to be my age, cold in the ground, scattered over   
the sea, and frozen in the vast unreachable nothingness between the stars.  
  
I finish the coffee, and clean my glasses.  
  
Tiny flecks of dirt and smudges from my fingers obscure the glass. I find my vision drawn in to minute detail as I rub a tissue over the smooth, precision-ground surface of the lens. There, a tiny scratch, from cleaning them dry, as I'm doing, now... there, an imperfection in the bridge, from me holding them too tight when I clean them dry... It's done, and I sit lost and gazing into a concave world of laminated silicone oxide bridged with a piece of gold plated titanium alloy.  
  
I hear the faint, barely audible click of the intercom and feel the open channel buzzing static at the back of my neck for the brief moment before I hear Gunny breathe in and say, "The Rigan Ambassador is here to see you, sir."  
  
I put my glasses back on, and with them, my metaphorical buckler: back straight, shoulders square, ready to face the world and do my job.  
  
  
  
I'm really going to have to make sure I don't miss that next appointment with Kate. I think I may be coming down with something. It's my own fault: I should have had my inoculations updated last month, but -- of course -- I missed my medical appointment.  
  
I'm feeling positively nauseous and I keep getting cold chills. 'Flu, probably. There's a bug going around the office. Fortunately, the team have all been inoculated, so whatever it is, they're safe.  
  
The Rigan Ambassador is less than happy with the results of our meeting. I was his best hope, and I've had to tell him that I can't let him have G-Force for regular patrols. There's a perfectly good reason why: our intelligence anticipates Zoltar turning his attention from Riga to Earth, but I can't release that snippet of information, no matter how comforting it would be, to the Ambassador. In a way, I'm glad of it: how does one tell a man his planet is no longer considered worth invading?  
  
My chest constricts, like someone tightening a steel band around my ribs and sternum as I show the Ambassador out of my office: this man once considered me an ally, but his stiff shoulders and chilly farewell tell me that this is no longer the case. I've just been relegated to the ranks of 'petty bureaucrats to be circumvented.'  
  
With any luck, I might have given him this 'flu.  
  
As the door closes, I stagger back to my desk and let myself fall into the big padded chair, taking deep, even breaths and trying to centre myself. I don't normally get sick -- I eat well, exercise regularly and until now, I've been careful about my health. It must be a particularly virulent strain of influenza to hit me this hard.  
  
My vision swims, and I remove my glasses, placing them on the blotter. I need to close my eyes, so I let my head fall into the cradle of my forearms on the desk, and breathe. I can smell the faint residue of the dry-cleaning chemicals in the fabric of my jacket, feel the feather light tickle of lint against the tip of my nose, and hear my own heartbeat, strong, but slightly faster than my usual steady sixty beats per minute. There's a sensation of movement -- the virus must be affecting my middle ear, I think.  
  
With my eyes closed, the darkness has a texture to it, almost like velvet and burlap, and it swirls within the range of the non-vision in billows of sable gossamer. I breathe, and the sound is comforting.  
  
I drift...  
  
My computer emits a shrill warble that makes me jump, heart pounding, mouth dry.  
  
I fumble for my glasses and stab at the "acknowledge" key with one forefinger.  
  
Another appointment. This time, at Center Neptune. On cue, there's a tap at my door: Major Jones, my security coordinator, all starch and propriety, as ever.  
  
"The transport for Center Neptune is standing by, sir," she says before I can speak.  
  
"Thank you," I say, and reach for my briefcase.  
  
  
  
En-route to Center Neptune, I struggle to read the intelligence report as the Multi-Modal Transport craft slices through the water in submarine configuration. My eyes keep wanting to close: I really haven't been getting enough sleep, lately. Jones, assigned to accompany me, watches me with concern and I straighten in my seat. She'd like to say something, I think, to ask if I'm all right, but she refrains, and I'm grateful for her discretion. She might turn me in to Kate Halloran, however, for which I definitely wouldn't be grateful.  
  
It appears that our Counter Espionage Division is now fairly certain that Spectra is aware of the location of our new and supposedly secret vitalumis storage facility.  
  
They predict that Zoltar will launch another attack on our vitalumis stores. The only question is when. Zoltar was unsuccessful the last time he tried it, but Spectra's need for the precious mineral hasn't abated simply because G-Force were able to defeat their previous efforts.  
  
Zark's calculations bear out the CED reports, and that worries me. I put a call through to Zark and order him to assemble G-Force for a mission briefing.  
  
  
  
**Mark**  
  
They call it, "shake, rattle and roll." Hanging on to the push point on the tail fin, I give the civilian phase of the G-1 a shove and a sideways waggle. I can hear the fuel sloshing around in the wing tanks, and I step back and wait for things to settle down.  
  
There was some water condensation in the tanks overnight, something that isn't supposed to happen with this machine. I'll have to take it to Center Neptune to have the filler seals checked out, but in the meantime, I must resort to time proven methods to ensure there's no contamination in my motion lotion. Water is heavier than Avgas, so my little shake up should have dislodged any H20 lurking around the baffles and sent it to the lowest point in each wing tank, which just happens to be where the designers put the drain point.  
  
An icy blue sky burns coldly overhead, swept in broad strokes with mares' tails, painting a postcard message: the seasons are changing. That and the way the leaves are turning brown and russet and gold and yellow kind of give me a clue. I heft the fuel sample bottle in my hand and start draining. I get maybe another cc of water out of the old girl in total. Not bad. I find myself grinning at nothing in particular as I stow the bottle and wipe my hands on a rag. It's a perfect day to commit aviation!  
  
I head back to my shack, wash my hands and grab my nav. folder. I really should vacuum, but the lure of my plane far outweighs the lure of the Electrolux and I lock the door, activating the security system before I walk out.  
  
I feel a minor prickle of resentment: I never needed a security system on the shack, before, but the Chief has been insisting on tightening things up, lately, and so now there's a discreet monitoring system quietly hard wired into my home to make sure I don't get any nasty little surprises. On the one hand, I know it's a prudent thing, and on the other, it feels like yet another invasion. I shove the feeling aside and focus on the task at hand. I'm going for a fly.  
  
_Cheereep!_ That minor prickle of resentment sees its chance and pounces. "Ears on," I say.  
  
" _Commander_ ," Zark's voice emanates from my communicator, _"G-Force is required at Center Neptune for a mission briefing. Priority Two."_ So, it's not an emergency, but it's not quite routine, either.  
  
"Big ten, Zark," I sigh. "I'm on my way." I monitor the channel and listen to the others check in. There's background noise when Jason answers and there's an edge to his voice, an adrenaline fuelled edge I only hear when he's in combat or pushing a race car to its limits. "Racing or practising?" I ask.  
  
" _Practice_ ," Jason says, and the edge is no longer there. " _Time to go to work, huh?_ "  
  
"Got it in one," I tell him.  
  
" _I'm on my way,_ " he says. I'm glad he wasn't actually racing. It's difficult when he has to drop out of a race to answer an emergency call. It's so public, sometimes it's even televised and there's already been at least one article published about Jason's success in spite of his weird attendance record. He's just lucky his major sponsor is an Intel Division front company.  
  
I've already done my walk around, so I simply remove the locks and the chocks, then toss them into the storage compartment. I decide, to heck with it, I'm going to enjoy what little flying I can get in today. I spring up onto the wing step, push back the canopy and jump into the seat.  
  
She smells like Avgas, sun warmed vinyl and mustard. The mustard is from a ham sandwich I didn't finish on a flight yesterday. Rats. Forgot to take the trash bag out. It should disappear when I transmute the plane to G-Force mode. I open the cabin vents to full to compensate for the mustard and leave the canopy open while I do my pre-start checks: brakes ON, fuel ON (select both tanks), master ON, mixture rich, carburettor heat ON, throttle friction adjusted, set throttle for start, avionics master ON, mags ON, radios OFF, check outside area. Even though there's nobody there, I call out, "Clear prop!" to warn the bugs, and hit the starter.  
  
The engine growls and coughs, then the propeller twitches and spins with the sputtering roar of the engine, spitting oil and grit back into the cockpit. I switch my radios on, slide the canopy closed and ease my toes back off the brakes, bringing the throttle up so that there's enough airflow over the empennage to give me directional control.  
  
My kite rattles over the grass and I do my mag and run up checks as I taxi up to the threshold.  
  
I make the mandatory call to Flight Service and lodge a flight plan for Seahorse Base on New San Francisco Bay, which is where the _Phoenix_ is docked. I have the headings and ETAs pretty much memorised, and I can call in an amendment _en-route_ if the wind speeds me up or slows me down. There are a few aircraft around, mostly commercials on their way to and from the City. I check the windsock one last time and line up. There's a slight crosswind from the right, but not enough to be a problem. I drop my flaps ten degrees and toe the brakes, bringing up the engine revs. The tail wants to lift with the prop wash and the torque but I hold her in a moment longer before firewalling the levers and releasing the brakes.  
  
The plane surges forward and seeks the sky in a rush of power. No matter how many times I do this, there is always that moment where the wheels leave the runway, when I'm no longer earthbound but suddenly free and defiant of gravity, that moment between heartbeats where my spirit soars, my blood sings and my plane becomes a vibrant, living thing. No lover can bring me to this place, to this eternal, blink of an eye suspension of time and space between earth and sky. In this moment, I Am.  
  
I lower the nose of the aircraft and throttle back, raising the flaps and balancing her out with a little rudder. I trim her for climb and settle myself in the seat. The sky claims me and for now, I am content.  
  
  
  
**Princess**  
  
"Well," Jill says, shrugging, "if everyone keeps their clothes on and there's no actual physical... you know... then why don't you just pair up with one of those cute single guys from the yoga group and go?"  
  
"Jill!" If only she knew that I'd been thinking just that. "I couldn't! It isn't like it's just a meditation class, it's a tantric workshop!"  
  
"So you said," Jill says, and her eyes are twinkling with mischief.  
  
"No way!" I shake my head. "I... No. I can't. I'm not going."  
  
I hear Keyop's footsteps thundering down the stairs. He can be so stealthy when we're on missions (or when he's trying to spy on me) that it never ceases to amaze me how noisy he can be when he's being a normal boy. As close to it as any of us can get, anyway. "Alert!" he chirps out to me.  
  
"I heard it," I say. "Mark's about ten minutes out from Seahorse Base. Zark says Jason's a good twenty to thirty minutes away, though, so Mark and Tiny are meeting us here."  
  
Keyop's expression turns sly. "Private... channel... Chatting with Mark?"  
  
I can feel the heat rising in my face. I hate the way I blush so easily. "Yes," I say, trying to think cool thoughts about ice. The fact that Mark and I talk on a closed channel a lot is common knowledge among the team. Jason appears to give it his tacit unspoken approval, Tiny ignores it and Keyop treats it the way a bull does a red rag.  
  
Jill leans across the counter and lowers her voice, grinning. "You should ask Mark to go with you to the workshop."  
  
I catch my breath and stare at her. "There are rules," I mutter, _sotto voce_.  
  
"Break 'em," Jill says.  
  
"You know better than that," I murmur. She does, too. Jill was a field agent with G-Sec until she was injured in an aircraft crash. It left her with a limp and a cash payout from the ISO. She used the money to buy the café and the rent from the apartment Keyop and I share supplements her income. She still holds a security clearance, which is why we can live here in relative safety. Jill covers for us and watches our backs. She's also a good friend. The rule we're referring to is ISO Standing Order 109(v) which prohibits physical intimacy between personnel within any given chain of command. One oh nine part five, as it's known, is reputed to be legally watertight. Nobody's ever gotten away with breaking it. I could try, but I doubt I'd be the one to set the precedent. In any event, it's there for a reason. Once you cross the line, things change and you can't go back. If Mark and I were to take our feelings that far, it could destroy the team, and we both know it.  
  
Sometimes, though, it hurts.  
  
"Hmph!" Keyop snorts. "Girl talk!" He makes a face at us.  
  
Jill shrugs and straightens up. "You're just jealous because you can't join in," she teases, smiling at him.  
  
Keyop's expression of disdain turns to outrage. "Am... not!"  
  
"Cool it," I tell him, "Jill's just fooling. Buy you a hot chocolate while we wait?"  
  
"Sure!" Keyop bounces over and perches on the stool next to me. "With marshmallows!"  
  
"Right," I say, and can't help but glance at the clock on the wall. It's a little unusual for Mark to assemble us all prior to checking in at our 'official' rendezvous point, be it the ISO Tower, Seahorse Base on the Bay, Center Neptune or even Camp Parker. I get the feeling, from the sound of his voice over the communicator channel, that he's trying to be subtle about putting pressure on Jason. Our second in command hasn't been early to a briefing for a while, now. He's never actually late, but he's been the last to report in for what seems like an age. For Anderson, being dead on time is late. He expects us to be early for everything. For his part, Mark toes Anderson's line. As our team leader, he has little choice but to enforce the rules.  
  
  
  
**Mark**  
  
"Where is he?" I say, irritated now that almost twenty minutes have gone by without any sign of Jason. Princess, Tiny and Keyop are all perched on stools at the main counter of the Snack J. I'm standing, leaning with my hands flat against the laminated countertop.  
  
"Do you think anything's wrong?" Princess asks. "Should we try to raise him on his communicator?"  
  
"No," I say. "I checked with Zark. Jason's fine, and I'm not playing mother hen."  
  
"Well, at least I had time to eat," Tiny chimes in while wiping bread crumbs from the corner of his mouth.  
  
"Should go... without him," Keyop declares.  
  
"Keyop's right, Mark. There's no sense in all of us being late. Let's get the _Phoenix_ pre-flighted, at least," Princess says. "If Jason hasn't arrived by the time we're ready for launch, he can take a transport across."  
  
"We're already late, Princess. No, the Chief's tired of Jason being late for briefings and so am I. We wait. I'm going to hear about it, but maybe the lesson will sink in better if Jason knows we're all in trouble because of him."  
  
"Yeah, right," says Tiny.  
  
I pace up and down the length of the counter, making Princess nervous. There's no doubt about it, Anderson's going to be upset. Jason has been late four times in the last two months. It's as if he's forgotten his responsibility. I've tried talking to him, but he only snarls at me. Now, it's the Chief's turn. I've done all I can.  
  
Princess gathers up our cups and glasses and takes them behind the counter. She knows I won't want to waste another second getting over to Seahorse Base when Jason gets here. She's so good at picking up on my vibes; it's scary sometimes. Not that I can't do it with her or the others. Jason has the best ability, though. Many times he has read my mind and been exactly where I needed him. I allow myself a small snort of irony. I can count on Jason when the chips are down. It'd be nice to be able to count on him all the time.  
  
Finally. Here comes his car now. I don't wait for him to pull into a parking space before heading out the door. The others jump off their seats and hustle to follow me out. Princess hurries from behind the counter, waves to Jill and jogs to catch up with the rest of us. I don't bother to address Jason as I walk past his car and climb into Tiny's van. Maybe he'll get the hint. Princess stands still for a second, glancing from Jason to me, then she gets into the van and Keyop follows her. From the passenger window, I watch as Jason raises his eyebrows, shakes his head and puts the car into gear for the five minute drive to Seahorse Base and the _Phoenix_ 's hangar.  



	2. Alpha Males

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boys will be boys.

**Princess**  
  
Mark and Jason seem to be having some kind of testosterone fuelled contest to see who can ignore the other more pointedly without actually saying anything. I find myself wondering why Jason was late. If he didn't have a good reason, he'd have said something flippant and pretended he didn't care, but for him to sit there the way he is, glowering at his console, it must have been something important.  
  
If Mark would only speak up and ask him what it was, Jason might get it off his chest, but Mark has the co-pilot's station and is deliberately not looking at Jason. He's making a pretence of concentrating on our incipient splashdown and reading off the checklists as he goes while Jason reciprocates in kind, pretending that Mark doesn't exist.  
  
Tiny's ignoring both of them while Keyop just stares, seemingly bemused, his gaze travelling from the back of Mark's white helmet to Jason's dark one. He turns to me at last and makes as if to ask a question, but I shake my head and he takes the hint.  
  
It's one of those silences, the ones they say you could cut with a knife.  
  
We splash down with a thump and a shudder. Bubbles streak across the main view screen and the water clears as Tiny levels the _Phoenix_ out and trims her for submarine cruise. Mark is working his console as meticulously as a student sitting a flight test. This is Mark at his worst: he's gone from, 'I'm Not Acknowledging Your Existence,' to, 'I'm Setting A Better Example Than You.'  
  
Keyop and I sigh softly in unison. The only way this is going to end is in major league fireworks, sooner or later.  
  
The icing on our Unhappy Families cake is the way the chief's been grouchy, lately. Ever since poor Dr Umzabe had his heart attack, Chief Anderson's been touchy and irritable. I don't blame him, really. Dr Umzabe was a nice man and a good scientist. Everyone liked him. I wouldn't say Dr Umzabe and the Chief were close friends, but they worked well together and respected one another. The Chief was never one for letting people in, and after what happened with his old friend Dr Strecker defecting the way he did back in the first year of the war, the Chief seemed to put his guard up a notch. After Colonel Cronus died, he closed himself off even more. Just lately, I wonder if he's coming down with something, maybe this 'flu thing that's going around. He seems tired and there are shadows under his eyes that didn't used to be there. I worry about him, but if I were to say anything, he'd just grumble like a bear with a sore head and insist that he's fine.  
  
Ahead of us, Center Neptune is a dark, angular shape in the water. Yellow light pours from the hangar, a bright, beckoning rectangle. Tiny positions the command ship on approach and brings us in. We can both hear and feel the solid thumps of the clamps on the docking cradle and I watch the seawater cascading off the view screen as we're lifted clear of the water.  
  
"Let's go," Mark says as he gets to his feet. He runs the few steps to the elevator platform, cape sweeping and swirling as he moves. I follow with Keyop at my side. Jason stalks over to stand next to me and Tiny is last to take up position. He triggers the control with a signal from his communicator and we ascend.  
  
As the clear dome opens above our heads I look down at the hangar deck. The _Phoenix_ is slick and gleaming with moisture forming bright beads that roll and tumble down her smooth ceramalloy skin to drip back down into the seawater below us. We extend our cape wings without thinking about _how_ we do it -- we just do, the same way we might raise an arm -- and leap, gliding down to the deck. Engineering staff are already hurrying out to the _Phoenix_ to run checks and make sure she's fully loaded with fuel, ordnance and supplies.  
  
Mark's running as soon as his feet touch the floor. So are the rest of us, like migrating birds in his wake. People get out of our way as we traverse the corridors toward the Operations Centre. We pass through an automated security checkpoint and make our way into the briefing room.  
  
Chief Anderson is waiting, standing by the claristeel window the way he so often does, and his expression is one of profound displeasure.  
  
"I must have missed seeing a memo," he tells us, turning around slowly and letting his folded arms fall to his sides. "I was under the impression that Priority Two still called for same day attendance."  
  
That's Mark's cue to turn Jason in. I try to suppress the urge to cringe. Anderson makes his way to his desk and stands behind it.  
  
"It took a little longer than I expected to assemble the team," Mark says.  
  
"I expected you here half an hour ago, Commander," Anderson points out.  
  
"We were --" Mark begins. Anderson's hand thumps down on his desk, making me jump.  
  
"A Priority Two alert is only one step down from a scramble," Anderson says. "What was so important that Zark logged four out of five communicator units as being stationary at the Snack J Café for fifteen minutes?"  
  
"It was my fault," Jason says, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. "There was an accident, about three cars in front of me on the way in. There were kids in the car, and I stopped to help."  
  
The way Zark monitors our activities, Anderson probably already knows everything that happened, but he's going through the motions, anyway.  
  
"How many?" Anderson asks, remaining calm.  
  
"Three," Jason says, "and their mother." Then he can't help himself. He just has to add, "They weren't badly hurt, by the way, thanks for asking."  
  
"Three children," Anderson says reflectively. He has that look he gets when he's really angry: that steely calm, controlled expression that can flash over instantly to white hot fury. His voice turns silky and this is the point where I'd give just about anything to be anywhere but here. "And how many people are there in the Federation who'll be hurt if G-Force can't function at full capacity?"  
  
"It was a Priority Two --" Jason argues, but Anderson cuts him off with a wave of his hand.  
  
"Your intentions were good, Jason," Anderson says, "but your judgement was off. It's about perspective. There's a bigger picture and you need to see it!"  
  
"It was a judgement call," Jason says. "They needed help and I was there. This isn't an emergency, it's a priority two. I had leeway!"  
  
"As I said, your intentions were good and as far as those people in the car were concerned, you did the right thing, but there are two speeds at which I expect G-Force members to respond: fast, and faster. It wasn't an emergency call, and, yes, you had some leeway, but when you stopped at that accident scene, you put yourself at risk: risk of being hit by other traffic, risk of infection from blood and other body fluids, risk of injury from the wreckage, or from fire or toxic fumes --"  
  
"My cerebonics can deal with that stuff," Jason protests.  
  
"Your cerebonics can only do so much," Anderson says. "Yes, they can stave off injury, toxins and pathogens, but if your implants are committed to that before you even start a mission, it handicaps you. You can't function to your full potential if your cerebonic output is compromised." He takes a deep breath, as though he's suddenly tired, then pulls himself together. "If this scheduled reconnaissance turns into an emergency --and CED now believes that Spectra knows where we've moved the vitalumis stockpile -- then this delay could become critical. Jason, the balance of power is so precarious, right now, I can't afford -- however noble or altruistic your motivation -- to have any of you dividing your focus." Anderson takes a breath and exhales in pure frustration. His face is dark with anger, and there's an unhealthy grey tinge to his skin. "Apart from everything else, Zoltar's already attempted to compromise the team by targeting Mark, and trying to discover Princess' identity. If he thinks he can identify you, Jason, any roadside accident could be a trap." He sits down, making a visible effort to compose himself. "And you," he concludes, "have to learn to obey orders before you can start making judgement calls like this."  
  
Jason remains motionless in his seat. Anger and hurt play across his face and his jaw moves as though he's going to speak but then he subsides, looking away from Anderson with an expression of furious resignation. I look up at the Chief. He's right, but so is Jason. Anderson's focus shifts back to Mark. "Now," he says, "there was the incidental matter of a briefing."  
  
  
  
**Mark**  
  
Tiny's hands flit over the control console. He has big hands that look like they would be at home hauling on ropes and winding winches and hefting oars, but his fingers move with precision and delicacy as he sets us up for launch. The massive doors of the hangar are rumbling open and the seawater is almost at the level where we'll be ready to release the grapple and float free of the cradle.  
  
"Did anyone notice how pale the Chief was?" Princess asks.  
  
"He's always pale. Comes from hanging out with the fishes all his life," Jason says.  
  
"Cut it out, Jason," I say. "The Chief's a big boy, Princess, he can take care of himself." Like Gunny always says, it has something to do with a war.  
  
"I don't think he's been well, lately," Princess persists.  
  
"He can take two aspirin and call Kate in the morning," I growl. "Right now, we have other things to worry about." Princess subsides. She cares too much, that's her trouble. Even about people who don't deserve it.  
  
I feel the change in the ship as the grapples let us go and we are supported now by the water flooding in through the sea doors. Tiny has control of the _Phoenix_ , now and holds us stationary until the cradle retracts, then when we're clear, he steers us out into open water.  
  
  
  
Antarctica: what a place to build a facility. It's isolated and covered with ice and snow. The only inhabitants are the ISO staff who man the base, the wildlife, struggling to recover after the Van Allen Belt incident almost melted the ice cap, and the many teams of scientists trying to rehabilitate and preserve what was once a pristine ecosystem. Tiny makes best speed to the Earth's southernmost continent and we begin a lazy spiral downward from a barely sub orbital altitude, scanners listening and probing for anything out of the ordinary.  
  
Keyop chirps and burbles from his station. "Regular... day... at the office!" he quips.  
  
"Zoltar's fooled us, before," Princess cautions. That's an understatement. It's downright embarrassing the way he does it, time and again, building bases and concealing attack ships right under our noses. The ISO is about to start a massive security review across all five of the services - Air Force, Army, Cosmic Space Patrol, Galaxy Security and the Navy. There have been too many moles, too many defectors. Admiral Sasaki, the Chairman of the ISO, made a thundering speech last week that was broadcast right across the Milky Way, saying things like, 'Enough is enough,' 'Tough times ahead,' 'Nothing to fear if we have nothing to hide,' and so on. It sent the media into a spin. With any luck, it sent Zoltar into a spin, too.  
  
We fly a wide search pattern, picking up electronic chatter from the various scientific bases dotted across the continent. The computer sifts and sorts the data. Princess and Keyop are monitoring the data feed. Suddenly Princess smiles and switches some scratchy voice traffic to audio: ' _-n't one of you guys tell me that penguin crap smells like this? How the hell are we going to get it out of my jacket?' 'Don't look at me, Edwards,' 'And who said anything about 'we' getting it out?' 'Come on, guys, it's freakin' penguin crap!' 'Damn straight.' 'Ammonia, Edwards. You're going to have to use ammonia.' 'It'll freeze!' 'Then I guess you're wearing penguin crap.'_  
  
We chuckle and Princess shuts off the audio feed. "Who said you should never work with animals?" she recalls.  
  
"WC Fields," Jason says. "But hey, we've only worked with a dog, some seals and that baby whale."  
  
"Wonder... " Keyop says wistfully, "how he's... going?"  
  
"Swimmingly," Tiny says with a quick grin.  
  
Jason utters a groan of disgust. I see a warning light and acknowledge the signal. "Incoming tele-comm," I advise my team.  
  
Zark's image appears on our screens. _"G-Force_ ," Zark says, " _you didn't get to Antarctica a moment too soon! My sensors indicate that an unidentified alien vessel is headed straight for our secret vitalumis storage facility_."  
  
"Not so secret, any more," I remark. "Take us down, Tiny. We don't have much chance to catch it up here. It'll be more vulnerable close to the ground."  
  
Zoltar catches us by surprise in three ways: in the early days of the war he kept catching us flat-footed with giant terror machines and we had no idea how he was getting past our defences. Intel analyses showed that the installations and the attack ships had been 'sleepers,' put into place as far off as six years earlier. Others were smuggled in piece by piece, some components even manufactured here on Earth. Still others come directly from Spectra, like the one we're about to engage. Zark tracks them through hyperspace until they emerge somewhere in our Solar System, then they make another, incredibly short time warp jump directly into our atmosphere. Sometimes they don't survive the jump. The Air Force brought one down a couple of months ago that came out of time warp into a thunderhead at about thirty thousand feet and then fell to earth, its engines silent. When the crash investigation team opened it up, they found the crew had been killed well before the ship crashed, dead to a man due to the molecular co-location with all the tiny water and ice particles in the cloud they'd flown into. They'd made the dimensional transition into space that was already occupied by more matter than its displacement field could handle. Living cells can't survive sharing the same space with other matter. The autopsy reports described a very quick, very unpleasant demise. The bodies had to be frozen for transport back to Spectra.  
  
I glance over at Jason. Zark's right. We didn't get here a moment too soon.  
  
" _I've got a visual on the alien vessel from our Early Warning Station on Planet Pluto_ ," Zark announces. " _I'm transmitting it, now_."  
  
Keyop warbles a few discordant notes. "Porcupine?"  
  
"Shoe brush?" Jason suggests.  
  
"Sea urchin?" I wonder aloud. The image, lifted and enhanced from the hyperspace monitors around the edge of the Solar System, is grainy and dull. The ship is shaped roughly like a... my brain sifts through a series of possibilities and settles on 'mouse.' From this angle, anyway. It's a mouse wearing a set of kitchen cutlery, however. I was wrong about it looking like a sea urchin: it has a definite snout at one end, but lacks the well defined tail of a porcupine.  
  
" _I believe it's meant to represent an echidna_ ," Zark says. Never play Trivial Pursuit if there's a robot involved.  
  
"A what?" Princess asks. She's a born genius when it comes to engineering, but biology mostly remains a mystery to Princess.  
  
"It's a monotreme," Tiny says, a sage expression on his face. "An egg laying mammal."  
  
"Mammals don't lay eggs," Princess says, then she looks at me. "Do they?"  
  
"Uh..." I shrug. "The... duck billed platypus?" I offer up an example.  
  
" _An echidna_ ," Zark says, " _is also known as a spiny anteater_."  
  
"Oh," Jason says. "Those weird little critters. Don't they eat termites or something?" He turns and meets my eyes, suddenly serious. "Spiny anteaters dig up termite mounds," he says. "The vitalumis storage silo's underground. Zoltar must have known about the new facility for months if he's had enough time to send in a purpose built ship!"  
  
"You're right," I agree. "Zark, warn the Commanding Officer at the vitalumis facility, then tell the Chief he'd better get Counter Espionage looking for a leak. Everyone keep your eyes peeled for this thing. Tiny, make for the vitalumis facility. Odds are Spectra knows exactly where it is and we need to get there first!"  
  
"Goin' down," Tiny announces. "Ground floor: shoes, soft furnishings and vitalumis storage."  
  
"Everyone... a comedian!" Keyop grumbles as Tiny puts the _Phoenix_ into a steep descending turn.  
  
The landscape looms closer as we drop in a controlled spiral. It's white on white on white. White-out, the pilot's nightmare, when visual input becomes so monotonous that it becomes possible to inadvertently fly into a mountain. It's happened before, and right here, too. Mt Erebus, I think, if memory serves. A tourist jet, way back in the mid-twentieth century, ploughed right into the mountainside and killed everyone on board. I see Tiny's head move as he pays close attention to his instruments. Tiny's probably one of the best pilots I know, certainly the best on heavies. My father was good, and I'm good, but heavies are something else, and the pilots who fly them a breed apart. Flying the _Phoenix_ , a mix of fighter and heavy, jet and rocket, atmospheric plane and space ship, is an unique challenge that very few people can handle. Even on the simulator, I routinely crash under combat conditions. Not Tiny, though. Tiny handles her like a maestro. She's his, even more than the G-1 jet is mine. Any good fighter pilot worth his or her salt could check out on the G-1, but I don't know anyone other than Tiny who could make the _Phoenix_ dance like a prima ballerina.


	3. Phoenix Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There'll be tears before bedtime.

**Princess**  
  
We're a team again.  
  
Mark and Jason are at their best when they're both pointing in the same direction, bouncing ideas off each other, sparking off pure brilliance. Individually, they're both good at what they do but when they get into that space where they're truly working together, it's as though their brains somehow connect.  
  
Sometimes, I'm almost jealous. I'm close to both of them, especially Mark, but in different ways. It's funny, but it's Jason, the supposedly dangerous one, who I feel safe with. Jason's like the big brother I never had. I can tell him anything and know that he'll never judge me. I can hug him and know that it won't be misinterpreted. I can cry and he'll do exactly what I need: shut up and pass the tissues. If only he liked shopping, he'd be perfect! It's Mark, though, who makes my heart skip a beat. Sometimes I feel like I'm always walking on eggshells with Mark. It's like one of those old fashioned dances out of a Jane Austen novel. We edge closer and closer, almost touch, then whirl away again, moving back and forth, never quite connecting, but always aware of the other. I can never truly open up to Mark, never be as direct as I really want to be. He's my commander as well as my friend and... and what? Is there a word for people who'd like to be more but can't?  
  
Apart from 'frustrated,' that is.  
  
"Bogey," Keyop announces, voice sharp. Rather than try to get his speech impediment around the coordinates, his fingers fly over his console and he puts his display up on the screens.  
  
"Got it," Tiny says, and brings us around.  
  
"I'm getting a signal from the vitalumis facility," I say.  
  
"Let's see it," Mark says.  
  
The screen lights up with a static plagued image. An army colonel in winter gear frowns at us. " _We have an incoming bogey_ ," he says. " _It's at five hundred feet, closing fast and we have a team of geologists caught outside the perimeter_."  
  
"Tell them to shake a leg," Mark says. "We'll take care of Spectra's pet."  
  
The colonel signs off and Jason folds his arms. "They were on alert," he observes. "What were they doing, sending people outside the safe zone?"  
  
"I guess that's their business, Jason," Mark says. "Tiny, where's the... what did you call it?"  
  
"Spiny anteater," Jason says.  
  
"What he said," Mark says.  
  
"Nine o'clock and below us," Tiny says. "By now, they've had a good look at us."  
  
"Scaring... them off?" Keyop chirps hopefully.  
  
"They've come too far for that," Jason mutters. "I say we take 'em out fast, before they get a chance to do any damage." He looks at Mark, waiting for the usual objection.  
  
"Do it," Mark says.  
  
"Let's see how they react to a few rockets," Jason mutters, and launches three of our small anti-aircraft heat-seeking missiles.  
  
The anteater doesn't deviate in its course. Instead, it fires a counter measure -- three rockets take our missiles out in three bright orange flashes of fire.  
  
"That got their attention," Mark says.  
  
"Mine... too!" Keyop adds.  
  
They only fired three counter-measures and they took out our missiles in less than five seconds flat. "That's pretty accurate shooting," I dare to venture.  
  
"Beginners' luck," Jason snorts, tossing the comment over his shoulder at me, but his eyes are shadowed with concern.  
  
"Tiny, give 'em something to think about," Mark says.  
  
"Here goes," Tiny says, and puts the _Phoenix_ in to a stooping dive. I hang on to my console as the deck tips back beneath us. The artificial gravity neutralises some of the inertia, as does the force field that surrounds the core of the ship. We can still get flung around pretty badly, but the constant force field, backed up by layer upon layer of redundancy, is our lifesaver. It mitigates the worst of the forces we're exposed to: the heat of the _Fiery Phoenix_ and the extreme forces of inertia, gravity, thrust and drag that come with aerial combat and space launches.  
  
We arc around to port as Tiny guides the _Phoenix_ in. I see Jason's hands tense over the weapons console: we're providing our enemy with a beautiful big fat targeting profile as we set ourselves up for an attack run. I gasp as I see rockets streaking toward us and Tiny grunts with dismay and effort as he drops the starboard wing, making my stomach lurch. Jason battles the targeting computer and lets fly four of our own rockets, then another two while Tiny takes evasive action. My instruments show that we're spinning but all I can see out of the main viewer is featureless white. We're at just under nine hundred feet above ground level, and that's awfully close to what Mark and Tiny only half-jokingly refer to as 'cumulo-granite.' For pilots, the Eleventh Commandment is, ' _Thou shalt not fly below minimum safe altitude, lest the ground rise up and smite thee._ '  
  
"Got 'em!" Keyop crows. I glance at his screen. The tactical readout indicates that Jason's aim was good and that one of the rockets got past the anteater's countermeasures. A thin contrail of black smoke begins to leak from the aft section of the ship. It isn't enough to stop it, however.  
  
The _Phoenix_ levels out. I see Mark's shoulders move as he reaches over to stab at a control. "Okaga Base, come in," he says.  
  
" _Reading you, G-Force._ " The reception is worse than before.  
  
"How are you doing with your people?" Mark asks.  
  
" _We're still trying to retrieve the core survey team_ ," the fuzzy image of the colonel says. " _I've got fifteen people out on the ice._ "  
  
"Fifteen?" Jason is half out of his seat, and is forced to sit down again or fall over as Tiny tightens his turn.  
  
" _I had to send a retrieval team after the surveyors' snowmobile broke down._ "  
  
"Do what you have to," Mark says. "So will we. Out."  
  
"We're being ignored," Tiny announces, nodding toward the anteater ship. He levels out, then jinks again as two more rockets are fired at us. We're managing to keep pace with it, and we're closing fast on the vitalumis facility.  
  
"That thing must have missiles pointing in every direction!" Jason grumbles.  
  
"Princess?" Mark prompts.  
  
"Jason's right," I say, studying the computer analysis of the ant eater. "Those spines on its back aren't just for show. They're missiles, loaded for launch. Most of that ship is one big missile array."  
  
"That's not exactly the best news I've had all day," Tiny says.  
  
"They say the truth hurts," Mark mutters.  
  
"Getting close..." Keyop reports, "to... base!"  
  
"We have to stop it," Jason says, "and they have too many countermeasures for our missiles to be effective."  
  
"Then I guess it's time to melt the ice," Mark decides. "Places, everyone. Tiny, prepare to transmute to _Fiery Phoenix_!"  
  
"Skipper, we can't," Jason says. "Look!" He points out at the snow: a group of human figures, mere specks in the white, are making for the base.  
  
"If we transmute this close to them, we'll kill them," I realise.  
  
"Fire a Bird Missile!" Mark snaps.  
  
Jason lines up his target. "Tiny, bring us in closer!"  
  
"We'll be in range of _their_ missiles!" Tiny protests.  
  
"Do it!" Jason insists.  
  
"Have you got the shot?" Mark asks, his voice tight with strain.  
  
"Incoming!" Tiny says, and Jason fires a volley of rockets to intercept the enemy fire.  
  
"I've got the shot," Jason says, "but those scientists are still too close!"  
  
"If you don't take the shot, the casualty list's going to be a lot higher," Mark warns. "Take the shot!"  
  
"Not yet!"  
  
"Jason, that was an order!" Mark is on his feet.  
  
"Just another few seconds!"  
  
"Fire!" Mark snarls.  
  
"Not yet!"  
  
"If you don't take the shot, Jason, I will!"  
  
"Incoming!" Tiny says again.  
  
"Jason!" Mark's voice pitches up in alarm.  
  
"Missile away!" Jason declares.  
  
"Brace!" Tiny shouts, and drops the port wing so sharply I'm thrown from my seat.  
  
The world becomes a violent blur of sound and motion as an explosion shakes the ship. I hit something -- Floor? Wall? Console? -- and although my helmet takes most of the impact at the back of my head, I see stars and the wind is knocked out of me. The ship tips again and I scrabble wildly for a handhold. I can't tell which way is up but there seem to be several dozen variations on down and sideways. For a sickening fraction of a second, we're in free fall and there's no gravity. My stomach lurches, then the deck comes up to meet me again. I can hear Tiny's voice and Mark's voice as they bark the emergency checklist at each other, then there's a massive _WHUMP!_ that rattles my teeth, followed by another one, then another, then it stops. Alarms are sounding from all directions in a jumble of shrilling and buzzing.  
  
"Princess, are you okay?" Mark's hands are on my shoulders. "Princess?" He helps me to my feet. We've come to rest on the ice, wheels up, port wing down, nose pitched forward. Through the main viewscreen I can barely discern the horizon, seemingly tilted at about thirty degrees.  
  
"Did we get the anteater?" I ask.  
  
"No," Jason's voice is bleak. "We damaged it, but it's at the base. It's taking the vitalumis."  
  
"And we're out for the count," Tiny says. "We're a sitting duck, here!"  
  
"Maybe not," Jason says, his eyes gleaming. "Is the rocket firing mechanism still working?"  
  
"Yeah," Tiny says after a moment's checking, "but the bird missiles are underneath us, in the snow."  
  
"We're loaded with heat seekers up top," Jason says grimly, "and the crew of that ship are busy stealing the vitalumis." He leans over the weapons console. "Here goes all we got." He works the console, programming the targeting computer.  
  
"You haven't got a clear shot," I say.  
  
"No, but that thing's the biggest heat source out there," he reasons, and fires every last missile.  
  
"If this doesn't work," Mark says, "we're going to have to abandon ship, and fast."  
  
We stare, transfixed, at the view screen. Our missiles arc around toward the anteater, which is only partially visible, its fore-parts seemingly buried in the snow as it does whatever it is it's designed to do.  
  
Several missiles fly clear of the Spectran ship, and take out four of ours, but the remaining seven hit home.  
  
The anteater shudders, raises its head and lurches to one side. It takes off, wobbling, an easy target, but we have nothing left to throw at it. Trailing billows of black smoke, it limps away.  
  
"Looks like Jason gave it a black eye," Tiny says. "Trouble is, they did the same to us. The port wingtip's history."  
  
"The port wingtip?" My spine goes cold and my jaw drops. "My bike!"  
  
"Did it... get... vitalumis?" Keyop wonders, ignoring me and staring out of the viewscreen at the skewed landscape.  
  
Mark lets go of me and returns to his station to activate the tele-comm. I hear him speak, his tone urgent, as I lurch back to my seat. "Okaga Base, what's your status?"  
  
The screen flickers into life. " _Our people are all accounted for,_ " the officer says. " _A few minor injuries, but we were able to get everyone to the shelters, thanks to you._ "  
  
"What about the vitalumis?" Mark asks.  
  
" _It's too early to say,_ " the colonel evades, but his face tells a different story. " _Vitalumis can be replaced. People can't._ "  
  
"True," Mark says. "G-Force out." Standing with his back to me, he opens another channel. "Zark, do you have ears on?"  
  
" _Reading you, Commander_ ," Zark says, his image appearing on screen. " _I've scrambled an emergency retrieval crew and I'm running an extensive diagnostic on the_ Phoenix's _systems. The magnetic interference from the Pole is making things a little difficult, but I should have a repair plan in place by the time you get home._ "  
  
"What happened to the anteater?" Mark asks.  
  
" _I'm afraid it vanished from my scanners_ ," Zark says. " _My sensors indicate that Spectra managed to steal almost all the vitalumis we had in the Okaga stockpile._ "  
  
"Do you think the ship left Earth, Zark?"  
  
" _It's unlikely,_ " Zark says. " _The anteater was damaged. They've probably gone to ground to complete repairs. I'm going to recommend to Chief Anderson that we make getting you back in the air a priority so that you can be there to keep them from getting away_!"  
  
"I hope you're right," Mark says. "Out." He closes the channel and I see his shoulders sag. "There were colonies counting on that vitalumis," he says. "There's going to be hell to pay when we get home."  
  
  
  
**Chief Anderson**  
  
I have a splitting headache.  
  
They're down.  
  
Down in the snow and the ice, and they're safe, so I can let my fear abate and give my anger free rein for a moment.  
  
The telemetry feedback was atrocious: it always is from our polar regions. There's an irony, there, in that we can get high-quality readout from light years away, and yet our own poles give us grief.  
  
I'm not entirely clear on what happened. There was some kind of exchange on the bridge, a bird missile was fired, then the readings went to hell and gone. A few moments later, the encrypted E-PIRB was activated.  
  
I'm waiting on reports from the retrieval team, and the return of G-Force to base.  
  
My hands are shaking as I reach into my desk drawer for a band-aid -- when I realised the _Phoenix_ was in trouble, my heart leaped in my chest, my mouth went sandpaper-dry and the bottom fell out of my stomach. After a moment, I wondered what the pain in my right hand was, so I looked down, head spinning, and saw that I'd gripped a pencil so tight that it had broken and there were wood and paint splinters in the ball of my thumb.  
  
I'm trying to pick them out, without a lot of success. When I get my hands on those kids...  
  
  
  
They slink into the briefing room, shoulders slumped, heads down, eyes dull: G-Force in defeat.  
  
"I've studied the telemetry and the mission logs," I tell them levelly, and I seek out Mark's eyes. He raises his head, meets my gaze for a fraction of a second, and looks away again. It takes all my self control to remain outwardly calm. Hitting him won't solve anything. I never meted out corporal punishment when Mark was a child, but he never scared me like this when he was a child. "Do you have any idea of the Federation's vulnerability without G-Force?" I demand. "One of these days, Commander, your misguided heroics are going to cost us this war!"  
  
His head jerks up, the very briefest flash of defiance in his eyes, and for a second, he reminds me of his father.  
  
"I --" he begins, but I don't let him finish.  
  
"As commander," I continue, "it's your responsibility to keep your team under control. You keep them tight, you keep them working together, and you keep them focussed. That didn't happen today, now, did it?"  
  
He fidgets, and I take a breath.  
  
" _Did it?_ " I roar.  
  
"Jason refused to obey a direct order!" he snaps angrily. "I can't work with a team that won't follow orders!"  
  
My attention whips around to the gunner and I drill him straight between the eyes.  
  
"What do you have to say for yourself?" I demand.  
  
"There were people on the ice," he snarls. "It was a calculated risk."  
  
"A calculated risk..." I echo. "Well, how's this for a calculation, Jason? If we lose some Antarctic outbuildings and equipment, we lose some stuff that can be replaced. G-Force can't be replaced. You risked the entire team and the _Phoenix_ on some heroic gamble -- that's twice in one day. Don't you _ever_ listen to what I tell you? Don't you understand the value of this operation to the Federation? Don't you ever stop and take a step back and look at the bigger picture?"  
  
My hand slams down on my blotter and my desk tidy rattles.  
  
"Jason," I continue, "your impulsive behaviour --"  
  
"-- Saved the lives of over a dozen innocent people who hadn't managed to evacuate to the shelter!" he shouts, mantles quivering, eyes blazing. "You want to talk about the big picture, well, here's the big picture: we're here to protect people who can't protect themselves. We're supposed to be the good guys! Don't you get it? Don't you have any principles? Any ethics? Don't you have anything resembling a _soul_ under that suit? I did what was _right_ and I'm going to keep on doing what's _right_ and if you don't like it you can fire me and you can go to hell!"  
  
"You think that sitting on your moralistic high horse is going to cut any ice when you're dead and gone through some act of stupidity like I saw today and Zoltar walks all over this planet?" I retort. We're both shouting, now, and my breath comes hard and hot in my chest. I can hear my blood roaring in my veins. The anger has me, now, and I'm burning, burning like hellfire. I can go to hell, can I? Oh, Jason, you don't know the half of it, you foolish child. I'm already there. "You think that your principles are going to save the galaxy from Spectra? Tell me just how you're going to stop Zoltar from your grave, Jason! How the--"  
  
And I can't breathe.  
  
Pain rips through my chest. It's like the hellfire inside me has turned into a thousand claws and it's tearing me asunder.  
  
I hear a gurgling noise -- see my left arm spasm, feel my knees buckling.  
  
And my vision fades through red to grey to dead black.  
  
So this is what it's like to die...  
  
... and burn in hell.


	4. Into the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark's helplessness spills over into anger.

**Mark**  
  
Driving becomes difficult as my vision first doubles and then trebles. I feel wetness on my cheeks and realise I'm crying. I almost don't see the brake lights in front of me, and I slam on my brakes. Thank heaven for anti-lock brakes, although they unnerve me when they do that quick release thing before grabbing a good hold. As soon as traffic moves forward, I pull over onto the shoulder of the road, which is no easy task. My body feels numb. I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and pray to a God that I understand little.   
  
A sharp tapping noise startles me into sitting up. A police officer motions me to lower my window. As I do, he asks, "Is anything wrong, sir?"  
  
"I just watched my father collapse with a heart attack," I reply before I think, and surprise myself.  
  
"That would explain your lack of attention to the road. Stay here as long as you need, please."  
  
Right.  
  
I roll up my window as I watch him walk back to his cruiser and get in. At first, I think he's going to stay until I decide to leave, but then I see his turn signal come on and he merges back into traffic.  
  
I lean back into my seat and use the back of my hand to wipe my cheeks and eyes. Had I just referred to the Chief as my father? I haven't done that since finding out he knew Cronus was my father and never told me.  
  
I immediately lean forward, restart the car, glance over my shoulder and pull back out into traffic. I tell myself not to remember the past, but my subconscious mind pays no heed.  
  
I felt bitter with Chief Anderson after the Van Allen Belt incident. I became sarcastic and argumentative whenever I dealt with him. The worst disagreement happened during Spectra's invasion with the large wasp. I disobeyed orders and followed what looked like Cronus. He gave me secret documents to bring back to the team.  
  
"Very interesting," the Chief said. "The question is, why did Cronus give them to you?"  
  
"Just could be he wants to help. Know what's wrong with you security people? You suspect everyone."  
  
"We aren't allowed one mistake in judgement, Commander. If my own son gave me these papers, I'd question them."  
  
"I'm not your _son_ and Cronus once saved my life. Now, he wants help."  
  
"I believe you have doubts yourself, Commander. You must have seen Spectra's evil symbol on the document case."  
  
"I saw it," I said.  
  
At that point, I clearly drew the line that I regarded the Chief strictly as superior and me as subordinate. It took me a while to fit into the new role I created for myself, but in the end I managed to keep doing my job.  
  
I arrive home and immediately crawl into bed. I pull the covers over my head and bury my head in my pillow in a way I haven't done since I was a small child; a small child who is afraid and needs comforting, but no one is around to provide the needed hug or gentle word. I draw myself into a foetal position and feel my breath against my knees. I wish I could curl up so tight that I simply disappear. I remain this way for at least a half-hour, but no comfort comes. I give up and get up.  
  
I hate my fear. It makes me feel weak and vulnerable; neither of which are becoming attributes for any leader. I go outside in an attempt to clear my head. I walk towards my runway while scanning the horizon. Menacing looking black and gray clouds are rolling in at a pretty good clip and I feel a cold wind push my hair from my forehead. The air has a heavy weight to it, a weight that matches the feeling in my soul. It's going to be a bad storm when it starts. I should head back to my shack, but I continue along the runway.  
  
I still don't know what to make of referring to Chief Anderson as my father. I do know that I feel the same way I did when I was four and lost my real father the first time. There's a constricting pain around my heart and I feel jittery and panicked. I don't remember much from when I was four, but I remember that feeling.  
  
What comes next? What if he dies?  
  
My mind replays the scene in the chief's office. He barely gave us a chance to enter before tearing into me in a way that took me by complete surprise.  
  
"What the hell did you think you were doing?" he started. I did my best to bear the brunt of his anger, but when he accused me of misguided heroics, my tongue escaped me.  
  
"Jason refused to obey a direct order. I can't work with a team that won't obey orders!" I wanted to tell him how many times I talked to Jason, how many times I reminded him of his responsibility, how many times I stressed that he be on time, but I didn't get the chance, because Anderson immediately unleashed his wrath upon Jason. What I witnessed stunned me. The Chief and Jason were standing toe to toe and nearly yelling into each other's faces.  
  
I glanced over at Princess. I could tell the argument upset her. Keyop had his face buried in Tiny's stomach and Tiny had his eyes cast up at the ceiling with a look of dismay clearly stamped on his features.  
  
Then the Chief's face turned from deep red to a light shade of purple. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of it. I wanted to tell him to stop. Something was wrong, but my tongue lay frozen against the roof of my mouth.  
  
"Chief?" Princess asked. "Chief, are you all right?"  
  
And then he clutched at his chest while gasping for air. I wanted to step forward, but my feet were rooted to the floor. He pitched against his desk hard enough to knock his glasses off his face. _No!_ my mind screamed, but still I couldn't act.  
  
Jason and Princess were immediately by his side asking if he was okay, if he could hear them. He didn't respond. He just slumped there, like a dead thing as though his life were draining away.  
  
I walk with my head down and eyes focussed intently on the runway, but I don't see the asphalt. I see Jason and Princess lay the Chief on the floor on his left side. I see them check for his pulse and find none.  
  
"Mark, call a medical team!" Jason barked at me. I remember how I jumped at the sound of his voice, but I was finally in motion as I headed for the tele-comm.  
  
Had I just been standing there? Had I? What was wrong with me? I've protected the Chief dozens of times. I've saved his life a number of times. How could I just be standing there when he wasn't breathing, when he didn't have a pulse?  
  
My fear turns to rage as I wheel around and scream inarticulately at the black clouds. In seeming response, the storm's first lightning bolt flashes across the sky, immediately followed by a large crack and a long, deep, earth-rattling rumble.  
  
I raise my fists towards the sky. "Come on then, damn you! You want a piece of me, too? Huh? Well, come and get me! You can't have him! He's all that I have left and YOU...CAN'T...HAVE...HIM!"  
  
Another loud rumble tears loose from the sky. Lightning bolts are striking down in a strange kind of faery dance. The first cold, large drops fall from the sky. I should run back to my shack before I get soaked, but I don't care. I'm one with the storm. Its fury is my fury. I hope to make its release mine as well.  
  
The sky opens up and I'm instantly drenched. I stand in the middle of the runway with my face skyward, feeling the rain beat against my face washing away tears of rage, frustration and fear.  
  
_Please let him be alive. Please let him live._ I don't know how I would continue without him around. I was an arrogant ass to stop regarding myself as his son. If he doesn't make it through whatever happened to him without me being able to apologise or put things right, I'll never be able to forgive myself.  
  
I slump to the ground and sit cross-legged with my face in my hands. The rain beats against my neck and back. The water is freezing and suddenly I'm being pelted with hail. I don't care. My punishment should be far worse. I didn't notice sooner that something was wrong. I ignored Princess when she tried to tell me that the Chief didn't look right. I might have been able to persuade him to see Kate before he had the episode.  
  
I shake my head in negation as my mind tries to tell me what that episode was. It was a heart attack. The Chief had a heart attack, the same thing that took Dr Umzabe.  
  
My grief is overwhelming. _Dad_ , I think to myself. _Oh, Dad. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._  
  
To my left, lightning strikes a large oak tree at the perimeter of my property. I feel electricity in the air around me. As the tree crashes to the ground, I realise the danger I'm in by sitting out here in the rain. I stand and run as best as I can to the shack. It's no easy task with the hailstones covering the ground. If whatever powers that be wanted that piece of me I offered, they could have taken it then.  
  
I duck inside my shack and slam the door behind me. I gulp in short breaths, and feel covered in a hot sweat although the rain and hail has chilled me to the bone. I make my way without bothering to turn on the lights until I reach the bedroom. As I flick on the overhead light, I jump and nearly transmute to protect myself from the stranger I see. It's only my reflection in the mirror that hangs over the small washbasin.  
  
Heart pounding, I take a better look at that image: red-rimmed eyes surrounded by dark-shadows that give my face a raccoon look, dripping and matted hair, and a mouth drawn down into a long frown. Is this how I look to the rest of the world? I should look happy and carefree, free from responsibility like most young men my age.  
  
I shake my head and walk away from the mirror. Many of my contemporaries are either finishing up high school or starting college, or they're looking for their first job. They're probably living at home with their parents. They're likely sitting inside a classroom or cubicle wishing they could be out enjoying the day. I have done so much more, experienced things most nineteen year olds only dream about. If I want to vacation on a distant planet or just take off in my plane, I can. I know what it's like to travel in space, and what it's like to float to the earth from several thousand feet up with only the wings of my uniform to support me. But I pay a high price for those benefits. I pay for it by experiencing the horrors of killing and maiming. I paid for it with the loss of my father and brother. I have lost almost every person I look up to and lean on for guidance and support. Now Anderson's life hangs in the balance, and I don't know what to do.  
  
Rage wells up inside me once again as I try to deny that the Chief could ever die. I grab my pillow from my bed and pull at it hard enough to rip it open. Feathers spill and float everywhere, and I throw what remains to the floor. Looking at it makes me feel stupid. Now I'm without a pillow. I press the back of my hand to my mouth to hold back the sob that wants to escape as I squeeze my eyes shut. I can't imagine mission briefings without Anderson there to head them. He has always been there. I realise that the Chief never takes vacations or sick days. Whether a briefing takes place at two o'clock in the afternoon or at three in the morning, he's there. Nor does he sleep or rest while the team is out. He's almost as reliable as 7-Zark-7, with the only exception being that he has to take some time to sleep, but I bet he doesn't get too many hours per day. How could I have been so self centred not to see the sacrifices the Chief makes daily; has been making for twenty years or more? If I want to sleep for eighteen hours after a mission, which I sometimes do, I can. The Chief doesn't have that luxury. If a three day mission ends in the middle of a workday, he still has a mountain of paperwork waiting for him when he's done.  
  
I remember childhood vacations Anderson took with my team mates and me. He always had his portable office with him. He even brought a secretary along if he had a tremendous amount of work to accomplish while he was out of the office.  
  
I finally understand the looks and heavy sighs the Chief gives me whenever I request more vacation or recreation time for the team. I understand why he gets so upset whenever one of the team shirks his responsibility by not showing up for meetings or making himself unavailable by turning off his wristband communicator. Did I consider myself more mature and wiser than the average nineteen year old? I'm not. At best I'm a spoiled brat too used to getting my way. In addition, I make a terrible example for my team mates. If I find it acceptable to be five or ten minutes late for a meeting, they will find it acceptable to be an hour late. If I have no qualms with turning off or taking off my wristband, why should they? I ball my hands into fists and clench them until I can feel the excruciating pain of half moons imprinting themselves into my palms from my nails. I should have been studying the Chief's example, then doing my best to provide that example to the team. Instead, I've been acting like a kid and doing whatever I want, whenever it suits me.  
  
"But I'm only nineteen!" I call to the empty room. Only nineteen perhaps, but schooled and trained to a level much higher than any of my peers. I lie down on my bed, knowing I should get out of my wet clothes and take a hot shower. I also should clean up the mess I've made with the feathers, but at the moment I don't care. I want to meditate in hope I might find the strength and courage I need to face the possibility of losing Chief Anderson. I want to calm myself, so I stop destroying pillows and lashing out at others like I did to Jason.  
  
I put my arm over my eyes to block out the light created by the lightning storm. As I begin to doze, I'm plagued with remembering the rest of today's terrible events.  
  
With the medical team called, I stepped forward to take over, but Tiny grabbed my arm.  
  
"Don't interrupt, Mark. You'll break their rhythm," he said. I tried to pull my arm away, but he held fast. The medical team arrived and Tiny, Keyop and I were ordered out of the room. I didn't want to leave. Tiny had to pull me out.  
  
I paced frantically in a circle just outside the door. The hallway walls felt as if they were closing in on me. I couldn't get control of it. Tiny tried to still me, but I continued to pace. Keyop openly cried. I should have stopped and comforted him, but my lungs felt tight as if I would soon hyperventilate.  
  
The medical team came out with Chief Anderson on the gurney and they raced down the hallway. Jason and Princess came out behind them looking strained and exhausted.  
  
"How is he?" I demanded, unleashing my anxiety upon them. Jason kept his eyes to the floor. Princess's face was pale and she looked shell-shocked. Neither responded.  
  
"Was he even breathing?" I persisted. Jason shook his head and began walking down the hallway. "Don't you walk away from me!" I called as I pursued him. "Have you learned a lesson now, Jason? I hope you realise you're responsible for his collapse."  
  
Jason stopped, turned and glared at me. "We'll talk when you're not so hysterical."  
  
"Son of a --" I mumbled as I drew my arm back. Princess rushed forward and grabbed my arm. Before I realised what I was doing, I yanked my arm free and pushed her away from me. She cried out as she went sprawling to the floor.  
  
Then I was suddenly up against the wall and unable to breathe. I opened my eyes to see a look on Tiny's face that, up until that point, I had only ever seen when he was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with Spectran soldiers. I instantly felt ashamed, embarrassed, and perhaps even afraid, because something in my expression caused Tiny to look guilty and say, "Sorry, Commander, but you were getting out of hand."  
  
"Stop it!" Princess wailed from the floor. "Please, all of you, just stop."  
  
What was I doing? Drawing the team into physically fighting against each other? What possessed me? How could I have instigated this situation instead of acting as their leader?  
  
Tiny let go of me. I glanced at him and then at the others. I felt dazed and confused as if I had just awakened from a bad dream. I didn't know what to say to them. I didn't know how to put the situation to rights.  
  
As I walked away from them, I realised that much of the wing's staff had gathered outside their office doors to watch the commotion. My humiliation was complete.  
  
As I approached one of the hallway's security mirrors, I allowed myself a glance at the team. Princess was in Jason's arms with her head buried against his chest. My stomach clenched with self-loathing for not being the one to give her the strength and comfort she needed. With a strong taste of failure in my mouth, I hurried on.  
  
  
  
**Chief Anderson**  
  
Pain.  
  
That seems logical, if I'm in Hell.  
  
Dull, aching pain.  
  
Wait a minute... shouldn't that be 'eternal burning pain'?  
  
With some demonic laughter thrown in, some torment, weeping, gnashing of teeth... and something to do with pitchforks?  
  
_Hissssss... click... hissssss... click... hissssss... click.._. Ventilator.  
  
_Bee-beep... bee-beep... bee-beep..._ Cardiac monitor.  
  
Re-evaluation: I'm not dead. Yet.  
  
There's a tube down my throat. Oh, joy.  
  
An electronic alarm starts to warble: a neurological monitor, no doubt, letting the medical staff know that my brain activity's on the up.  
  
I'm cold, and there's a fuzzy, heavy feeling in my head, a feeling I remember from field-administered morphine. When the machine forces me to breathe in and out, there's a strange... _clicking_ in my chest, that doesn't hurt as much as it ought to... I have at least one broken rib, and I've been given opiates of some kind... I was yelling at Jason... and there was pain...  
  
I try to open my eyes, and the lashes are cemented together with discharge. How long have I been lying here?  
  
"Chief?" Princess' voice, pitched high with worry.  
  
I struggle against the weight of the bricks on my eyelids, try to make a sound but all I can manage is a kind of strangled gargle.  
  
"Don't try to speak," Kate Halloran's voice says crisply.  
  
Now I'm in for it.  
  
"There's a tube down your throat, David," Kate tells me. No kidding. With surprising gentleness, she wipes the rheum from my eyes with a moist cloth, then brutally shines a light in my eyes and I don't have the strength to pull away. "You," she tells me, "are a benighted idiot. Hold still, now." Like I have a choice. "I'm going to take the tube out."  
  
There's a sickening sensation as she draws the tube up from my throat and I retch and gag on the mucus and the sputum it drags up.  
  
Kate tends to me herself. She's never going to let me live this down.  
  
"I guess..." I rasp, my voice has a shocking sound to it -- faint and dry and... and old... "having a tube down my throat... is better than what you threatened me with."  
  
"Careful," Kate warns, "I might still stick a tube up your ass if you give me any lip." She turns and smiles at Princess. "Don't let him give the nurses any trouble, okay?"  
  
"Sure, doc," Princess replies, with a smile that floods her eyes with relief. She takes my hand, tosses her head to try and hide the tears. "How are you feeling?"  
  
"Like a man who just had a heart attack," I manage to quip, weakly. My left arm is heavy as I try to run my hand down my ribcage and find the fracture. The kind of fracture that results from a hastily positioned hand giving external cardiac compressions. "Did I code?"  
  
The flickering shadow that crosses her face tells me the answer before she speaks. "Jason and I had to give you CPR," she says.  
  
"Thank you," I tell her, and I squeeze her hand with what little strength I have, clumsy with the pulse-ox pegged to my right index finger.  
  
I study her as she fetches an extra blanket from the utilitarian night stand cupboard: she's pale and drawn, her face blotched pink from weeping. For me? Or has something else happened...? She lowers the blanket over the sheets and tucks me in the way I used to do for her when she was knee high. Instead of a teddy bear, though, I have a twelve-lead ECG to deal with.  
  
"You gave us a scare," Princess murmurs, settling into the chair by my bed.  
  
"Speaking of 'us,'" I croak, "where are the others?"  
  
"Oh..." and the tears threaten again. "I sent the others to get something to eat... Mark..." she hangs her head. "Mark went home. He said he needed to be alone. Jason's still around somewhere. He went for a walk, said he needed to clear his head... "  
  
She leaves much unsaid... I've taught her too well, this little girl of mine.  
  
"Did Mark and Jason have an argument?" I guess. She nods. Why am I not surprised?  
  
"Please don't worry about it," she says, gathering her strength and clasping my hand. "Just get better."  
  
"I'll do my best," I promise. "Lying here like this isn't exactly my idea of fun."  
  
She manages a brave and tremulous smile.  
  
Of all my children, Princess is the one I can rely on the most. I can count two times where she's behaved in a manner I might call reckless -- the first time, she was acting on my orders to gather information on Spectra's killer flowers, a loose interpretation of my orders, with insufficient backup, but my orders, nonetheless; the second time was when she deliberately entered a contest which was a Spectran operation to try and uncover her identity after she lost her shoe during an attack. I was tough on her, that time, tougher than I should have been.  
  
I remember the time she asked me to let her travel to Tibet during the summer break from Space Academy. It was the first time she'd ever asked for something purely for herself. Prior to that, her every request involved the others -- "Can we?" "Could we?" "May we?" Never "I." But that time, she asked for herself, and I couldn't refuse her. I remember how Mark and Jason would put her up to making requests in their puerile attempts at manipulating me... sometimes, it worked. Of all my children, Princess is the strongest. She's the one who will hold the others up when they falter, the one who binds everything together. And it's that very strength that is her weakness: her ability to love and support is her Achilles' heel -- every injury to every member of her family wounds her by proxy. She shares the load, she assumes the burden, and she doesn't know where -- or even how -- to draw the line.  
  
My eyes close, and my concentration wavers.  
  
"Tired..." I sigh.  
  
I sense Princess rising to check my monitors, feel the back of her fingertips brush my cheek.  
  
"That's okay," she tells me. "You've had a rough day. Go to sleep, Chief."  
  
I drift... and my thoughts float on dark water that gives no reflection.  
  
I think of Cronus, and Bert Umzabe, and all the friends I've lost. I think of my children, and the fear that I could lose them threatens to swallow me. It was I who made them what they are, I who send them into mortal danger, I who trained them to leave their childhood behind and become warriors, I who took away their innocence, who led them into peril without a by-your-leave, sacrificing them on the altar of human altruism and raising them up to be little less than gods.  
  
Did I steal their souls, I wonder?  
  
And I drift again, losing the train of my thought, leaving the guilt behind, burying it deep inside where it can eat away at me from the inside, the way I deserve.  



	5. Murder Most Foul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is more to Chief Anderson's heart attack than meets the ECG.

**Princess**  
  
"This can't be right," I say. I'm numb, and this latest blow can't hurt me. I can't be hurt right now because I can't feel anything. I feel as though I'm frozen. Still walking around, but frozen inside. If anyone hits me with a hammer, I'll shatter like an ice sculpture. Tiny and Keyop sit on a bench in the waiting area while Jason and I talk to the Doctors Halloran. The boys look as stunned as I feel.  
  
"That's what I thought," Kate Halloran says. "I confirmed it then I reconfirmed it with Zark: it's our Gunnery Sergeant McAllister, and he's at County General with a suspected myocardial infarction. He collapsed at home shortly after the Chief was brought in. I've arranged to have Gunny transferred here as soon as he's stable enough for transport."  
  
Jason drains his coffee cup -- one of those disposable paper things -- and pitches into a nearby waste bin. "They say trouble comes in threes, don't they? Thinking back, I thought Dr Umzabe was a little young for a heart attack. He was, what... sixty something?"  
  
"Fifty four," Kate says, giving Jason a look.  
  
"Anderson... he's somewhere between forty and a hundred," Jason says, deliberately goading Kate.  
  
"Forty nine," Kate sighs, refusing to rise to the bait.  
  
"A regular spring chicken," Jason reasons. "Gunny, though... Okay, Gunny's got a cybernetic leg, but he runs every morning and lifts weights. No way was he a candidate for an MI!"  
  
"Not under normal circumstances," I hear myself say softly. "Jason, we have to --"  
  
"Secure the Chief's room," Jason finishes for me. "We'll take turns at guard duty. You call Deputy Chief Galbraith. Tell him he needs to put a security detail on Gunny -- none of the regulars. I'll deal with the Chief's detail."  
  
I stare at him. "You think the Chief's security detail could be involved?"  
  
"Can you say for sure that they aren't?" he challenges me.  
  
"I..." I shake my head. "I guess not."  
  
Bob Halloran speaks up for the first time. "Major Jones isn't going to like this."  
  
"Right now," Jason says, "what some uniform does or doesn't like isn't terribly high up on my list of priorities." He turns on his heel and stalks away.  
  
"I'll rush through a toxicology screen on David's blood," Kate says. "I'll organise the same for Gunny as soon as we can get hold of samples." She hurries away, her expression troubled.  
  
"Are you okay?" Dr Bob asks me.  
  
I nod and swallow, fighting back the tears that keep threatening. The Hallorans have been with the G-Force programme from before the beginning. They're like family. "I'm okay," I tell him.  
  
"I'll head over to Seahorse Base and start waking up lab technicians," he says. "You call me if you need anything, got it?"  
  
"Got it, doc," I say. He walks away, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder at us. Motioning for Tiny and Keyop to follow, I head down the hallway to where Jason is facing off with the Chief's security detail. Their OIC is bristling with indignation. A coldly competent woman, Major Jones is clearly outraged, but she's keeping a lid on it.  
  
"I trust, sir," she says icily, looking Jason in the eye, "that you have alternative security arrangements in place?"  
  
"G-Force secure enough for you, _Major_?" Jason retorts, emphasizing her lack of rank.  
  
"This is just a precaution," I say, hurrying over to them. "We may be over-reacting, but I'd rather be safe than sorry."  
  
I see Jones' fingers flex, as though she wants to clench them into fists, but she takes a breath and gets herself under control. "As you wish," she says, keeping her voice level. "Should you require any assistance, sir, ma'am, you know how to contact me." She turns to the lieutenant on duty. "It appears we're relieved of duty, Mr Maxwell."  
  
Lieutenant Maxwell's been on the Chief's staff for years. He knew us when we were in junior high. He looks at me, and I see the hurt in his eyes. Whoever did this, I know in my bones that it wasn't Josh Maxwell.  
  
"Josh --" I start.  
  
"It's okay, Miss Anderson," he tells me, managing a smile as though I hadn't just betrayed him and impugned every professional principle he has. "You do what you have to do." The two uniformed officers walk away.  
  
"I feel awful," I admit to Jason in a whisper.  
  
"You'd feel worse if it turned out one of them was an impostor... or worse," Jason points out. "What next?"  
  
I force myself to think. It's cold here, with the air conditioning turned up and the smell of surgical spirit on the edge of my awareness. I wrap my arms around myself and shiver. "Kate's running some tests," I mumbled. "Our next move depends on what she finds."  
  
Jason puts an arm around my shoulders. He feels cold, too. "You okay?" he asks.  
  
"Not really," I confess.  
  
"It's been a rough day for you."  
  
"I've had worse," I say.  
  
"Look," Jason says, "Mark didn't mean any of what he said or did. He was just reacting -- like an ass -- but I'd bet my last nickel he's feeling like an A-grade heel, 'round about now."  
  
"I know," I say without looking at Jason. "He's known the Chief longer than any of us, and been closer than the rest of us, too."  
  
"So," Jason says, giving me a brotherly squeeze, "now we've decided how Mark is, how are you holding up?"  
  
I bite my lip, and lift my head, forcing myself to smile. "I'll be okay, Jason. Thanks..." I pat the hand that rests on my shoulder. "Thanks for being here."  
  
"Any time," he says. "Come on, let me buy you a cup of coffee or something. We could both use something to warm us up, then we'll go check on those blood results." He turns to Tiny and Keyop. "Can you two stand guard duty?" he asks. "You don't let anyone in or out except Kate or us. If a nurse has to go in, one of you goes with them and one stays out here on watch."  
  
"You can rely on us, Jason," Tiny says. His face is grim. He hasn't smiled since the Chief's collapse, not even to try and cheer Keyop up.  
  
"We won't be long," I promise.  
  
In the hospital cafeteria, I fall into a chair at a table that has one leg shorter than the other three, and bury my head in my hands. "This is all so horrible," I say, my voice muffled against my palms.  
  
"I know," Jason says. He walks over to the counter, where a couple of staff members and a guy in a robe, trailing an IV stand, are buying food and drinks. I straighten up and my fingers stray to my mouth. My lips feel oddly bruised from giving expired air resuscitation. Chief Anderson was so pale, so grey in the face. My own heart was racing fast enough for three people as I tried to breathe for him while Jason did the external cardiac compressions. _Twenty eight... twenty nine... thirty -- BREATHE -- one... two..._ Then the medical team came in and took over, leaving me adrift and shaking. I wanted to comfort Mark and have him comfort me, but instead he blew up at Jason and... I close my eyes and fight back tears. I can't let go, not now. I can't fall apart. I have to keep myself together. I can't let Keyop see me shatter and crumble and fall into tiny little pieces that melt and run away. "Got you a latté," Jason says, and puts a fluted paper cup in front of me.  
  
"Thanks," I say. I drink it without really tasting it. It's hot and it contains caffeine. That's all I really need. Jason drinks in silence, allowing me space in my own head. "I keep asking myself the same stupid question," I tell him.  
  
"Who'd want to kill the Chief?" Jason infers.  
  
"Yeah," I say.  
  
"Hmmmm..." Jason says, feigning cogitation, "let's see... um... Oh, I know... Councillor Xiao from the Federal Council... Mayor MacNamara from Center City... Antoff of Tramulus... Captain Doom of Urgos... Half the population of Planet Riga, maybe, and who's that other guy... Wears purple all the time, name starts with a zee?"  
  
"Cut it out, Jase," I say wearily. "Any other time, I'd laugh, but..."  
  
"Hey." He reaches across and pats my hand. "Come on, finish your coffee and we'll go see Kate, then we can figure out the guard duty roster."  
  
"We should move him to Camp Parker as soon as he's stable enough," I say. "He'll be safer, there."  
  
"Good thinking," Jason says.   
  
I finish my coffee, then we head out in search of our Chief Medical Officer.  
  
  
  
**Chief Anderson**  
  
"Princess?" I address the shadowy form near the bed. The lights are dim. I have no idea what time it is.  
  
"Right here," she yawns, and I turn my head, aggravating my headache, making my vision swim.  
  
She's straightening herself out in the chair, where she's been sitting for heaven knows how long, wrapped up in one of those hospital issue cellular blankets.  
  
"I'm sorry, did I wake you?"  
  
"No, I was awake... thinking, mostly. Would you like some water?"  
  
"You read my mind," I tell her.  
  
"No," she says, "it's been hours since you had any water, even with the IV, and your lips are all cracked."  
  
She helps me up, adjusts my pillows and ignores the hospital issue pitcher of hospital issue lukewarm water, breaking the seal on a bottle of spring water, instead, and passing it to me. It's so heavy, I nearly drop it... there's no strength in my hands at all, and I take a deep breath of mortification as she helps me to carry out the simplest of tasks.  
  
"Thank you," I whisper, and she retreats back to the chair.  
  
"Chief?" she ventures, and I can see the wheels turning.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Did you have any warning of this?"  
  
"I've been under a lot of stress," I recount.  
  
"We've all been under stress," she says softly, "but I wouldn't have pegged you as a candidate for a heart attack, not at your age."  
  
"Is that a compliment?" I ask wryly.  
  
"Chief... they're bringing Gunny McAllister in from County General. He collapsed at home with an MI, just like you did."  
  
"Gunny?" I gasp. "That doesn't make sense."  
  
"Exactly. " she gestures at the palmtop computer on the nightstand. "Zark got me into the medical database, and I pulled your file, and Dr Umzabe's. There was nothing to suggest any known lifestyle, pathological, physiological or congenital risk factors that might have given us a clue to this. I'm still waiting for Zark to get me Gunny's records from his private physician."  
  
"What are you saying?" I ask, but I think I know the answer.  
  
"You taught me not to believe in coincidences," she says. "We're going to keep an eye on you, and as soon as Gunny's stable, we're shipping you both up to Camp Parker. In the meantime, I'd like your permission to run an investigation."  
  
"Where will you start?" I ask her.  
  
"All the standard tox and micro tests came up blank, but we'll carry out more extensive blood screening," she says, "on both you and Gunny, and if we can find any samples from Dr Umzabe, we'll take a look at his blood, too. Then we narrow it down to common factors -- and at the moment, the best thing I can think of is your office at the ISO tower. You and Dr Umzabe both spent time at Center Neptune, but Gunny only works at the Tower."  
  
"Unless we're talking pathogen," I argue. Another thought occurs to me. "Have you considered the security aspects of this?" I probe.  
  
"We're keeping it in house," she says darkly.  
  
"Good," I tell her. "By the way... just where am I? And where's Galbraith?"  
  
"You're at Seahorse Base Medical Centre," she tells me, "and Deputy Chief Galbraith reported to the President as soon as Zark notified him that you were out of action. Your chair's being kept warm."  
  
I nod weakly. "Good. You can trust Galbraith."  
  
"I know," she says, "but he'll have to trust us, too."  
  
"He can help you. He can smooth the way for your investigation," I suggest.  
  
"We'll see," she says cagily. "Jason's gone to fetch Mark. Dr Galbraith's working on a press release -- you have 'an undisclosed illness' for the time being. Once Tiny and Keyop get back, I'll take the blood samples to the lab and get them screened. We'll get to the bottom of this, Chief."  
  
"Tiny and Keyop...?"  
  
"I sent Keyop home to get some sleep. Tiny's catching a nap in the relatives' lounge. I'm your bodyguard for the evening. Pathogen or toxin, if whoever did this wants to try again, they're going to have to get past G-Force to do it."  
  
The glint in her eyes leaves me in no doubt that whoever my attempted assassin is, they would be wise to cut their losses and run. The effort of carrying on half a conversation has exhausted me, and I close my eyes, and tumble down into opiate-assisted sleep.  
  
  
  
**Mark**  
  
A knocking sound startles me out of an uncomfortable doze. I had been dreaming that Anderson had been dead for years, and the man I thought was the Chief had really been Zoltar all this time. I wipe my hands over my face as I remember my dream-self yanking masks off the Chief, Dr Umzabe and Gunny McAllister, only to find Zoltar's laughing face beneath.  
  
The knock comes again forcing me completely awake. There's someone at the door. As I sit up, I wince at the stiffness that has settled into my muscles and joints. I have a sinus headache and could scream at the pain I feel when I swallow. Terrific. That's what I get for sitting in a hailstorm, but a head cold is the last thing I need right now.  
  
I carefully get out of bed and make my way to the front of the building pretending not to have seen my reflection in the mirror. What I see makes me think I should ignore the knock at the door and go back to bed, but my visitor might have important news on the Chief's condition.  
  
Halfway across my office, the knock comes again. "I'm coming!" I call, amazed by how little my voice reflects the raging inferno taking place inside my throat. I open the door and see Jason standing outside. I flinch remembering his expression of anger and exhaustion as Tiny halted my right jab by knocking me into the wall.  
  
"If I was going to hit you, you would've been hit already," Jason says, with a hint of a smile on his lips.  
  
"Yeah, well don't do me any favours." I retort as I turn and walk away from the door, letting it stand open.  
  
"You look awful." Jason gently closes the door behind him as if he knows I have a pounding headache.  
  
"Thanks for noticing. I feel awful, too."  
  
"That's what you get for trying to battle a hailstorm."  
  
I whirl around with what feels like a look of disbelief on my face, but I'm not surprised. Not really.  
  
"I wanted to make sure you didn't do anything stupid," he continues as he rests his back against the wall, folds his arms across his chest and crosses one ankle over the other. It's a posture I have come to know well and have mimicked from time to time. He will stand there with his head slightly lowered, but with his eyes squarely focused on me until he has his say.  
  
"You were a little late for that," I reply.  
  
Jason raises a questioning eyebrow.  
  
"Jason, I was upset by what happened to the Chief. I let my emotions get the better of me. I never should have pushed Princess out of my way or tried to strike you."  
  
"Yeah, I was there."  
  
I turn away from him and head to my little refrigerator to get a Coke. _I was there_. I think I know what he's getting at. All those words, and I left out the two most important ones. Why are they so hard for me to say? I try to search my feelings while I pop the lid off the Coke and take a tentative sip. It burns and soothes at the same time. It must be a pretty nasty bug to hit me. We have shots every year to keep our immunity boosted and my cerebonics should be dealing with the worst of the symptoms.  
  
"How bad's your cold?" Jason asks.  
  
"The fact that I have one is bad enough. The degree doesn't matter."  
  
Jason nods. "Well, as soon as you and I take care of business over at HQ, you can see Kate."  
  
"What business? What's up, Jason?"  
  
"Gunny McAllister had a heart attack."  
  
I shake my head in disbelief. "This is getting crazy. First Dr Umzabe, then the Chief and now Gunny? That's..." I trail off trying to think of the words I want.  
  
"Too much to be a coincidence," Jason finishes for me. "We're waiting on test results to confirm it, but it had to be some kind of poison."  
  
"Poison?" Suddenly, my dream is with me again. Dr Umzabe, Chief Anderson, and Gunny all poisoned by Zoltar. Of course it's Zoltar. Who else has an interest in taking out the top and most valuable people in Galaxy Security? Who else is on his strike list? Who'll be next? "Zoltar," I mutter, fighting to keep from going into the equivalent of another pillow-tearing frenzy. "And here I am hiding at my shack like a four year old child frightened over losing the last man he can look to as a father."  
  
"Hey --" Jason starts.  
  
"When I get my hands around Zoltar's filthy neck, I'm going to make him pay."  
  
"Then go take a shower, so we can start investigating how he's doing it."  
  
I give Jason a ruthless smile. "I'll be with you in ten minutes."  
  
  
  
**Princess**  
  
My communicator chirps. It's Dr Roland Galbraith, the Acting Chief of Security.  
  
"I've got half of Science Division out of bed to work on those samples you brought over," he says.  
  
"Any news?" I ask him.  
  
"We found your toxin," he says. "It's a rare Spectran botanical, thought to be extinct, but obviously someone has enough of it to kill one man and nearly kill two more."  
  
I take a deep breath. "Is there an antidote?"  
  
"There's no magic bullet, if that's what you mean," Galbraith says. "The cure is to stop taking the poison and treat symptomatically."  
  
"So we have to find the source," I say. "It'll be something at the ISO Tower."  
  
"We'll send in a team first thing in the morning," Galbraith promises.  
  
"No," I say. "If it was an inside job, that'll tip them off. Jason went to fetch Mark. We need to catch whoever did this. Please, give us a little time."  
  
"Princess," Galbraith says, "there are other staff at the Tower, and we're going over personnel records to see if anyone else is sick. So far, we've found three more people who may be affected. A delay in action could be fatal. Don't worry, we'll be discreet. This is my call," he adds, reminding me just who's in charge, here.  
  
But I do worry. After Galbraith rings off, I open a private channel to Jason's communicator.  
  
  
  
**Mark**  
  
I watch the scenery pass by as Jason drives us to HQ. I try hard to concentrate on making a list of similarities our three heart attack victims share, but my mind keeps wandering. Part of it is the cold that's trying to lull me back to sleep, but part of it is knowing that I haven't managed to utter an apology to Jason. It's amazing how he can be extremely impatient about some things and patient about others. Whether or not I ever get around to apologising is irrelevant. He's had his say. He's made me realise that my excuses or explanations for why I had done things are not true apologies. Either I'll gain insight into myself or I'll ignore his words and continue on as I always have. I sigh, glance over at Jason, and then glance back at the road. Jason's silence is maddening. He knows how to give me all the space I need to think things through.  
  
We had a tutor in the early days of the G-Force Programme, Ms Stacey, who was good at making sure we apologised to each other whenever we did something to hurt one another. Whether it was pulled hair, a hit in the arm or a stolen toy, the procedure was the same. She would grab the offender and the offendee and make them face each other. Usually the offendee would be bawling his eyes out and the offender would have a grim look on his face or would be bawling too, because he knew he was in trouble.  
  
"Now, tell Jason you're sorry for taking the toy away from him, Mark," she would say. She would only prompt three times, and then I would be in a time out for at least five minutes, a lifetime to a six year old, so I usually managed to say what she wanted just to avoid being sent to a quiet corner to sit alone without anything to do. Having to say sorry was bad enough, but after the offender offered up his apology, she always finished with, "Now give each other a hug." Let's add injury to insult, okay? But she got what she wanted, two kids no longer fighting and if they stayed away from each other for the rest of the day, she was even happier.  
  
I glance over at Jason again, and although he never takes his eyes off the road, I sense he sees my every expression and gesture, that he knows my discomfort. I hear Ms Stacey's voice in my mind. _Tell Jason you're sorry, Mark._  
  
"I'm sorry, Jason," I manage at last.  
  
A smirk engulfs his face as he replies, "What? No hug?"  
  
"I hate when you do that," I protest.  
  
Jason chuckles.  
  
It's nearly twenty one hundred when Jason and I meet Princess in the lobby of ISO HQ. Unsmiling and grim, she nods to us and leads us to the elevators. I wonder if her formal attitude towards me is solely because we're on duty, or because she's trying to keep personal feelings from interfering with our working together. Either way, it pains me.  
  
"What's our game plan, Commander?" she asks.  
  
"We have to find a link between Umzabe, Anderson and McAllister. I hate to think Spectra may have breached security and had a man planted inside HQ," I start.  
  
"Don't even suggest it, Mark," Princess says.  
  
"We have to look at all the possibilities, Princess."  
  
"Maybe Spectra planted a guy on the cafeteria staff," Jason suggests.  
  
"That's a possibility, but I don't think it's likely. Our adversary would have to know precisely which men to hit, not to mention that all three are notorious for missing meals. If this drug needed to build up in the system before it did its job, cafeteria meals wouldn't be a sure method of delivery."  
  
"That's right," Princess says. "Besides, I had Zark send me all the data we have on the toxin that did this. It's a rare Spectran plant called _heartsbane_ , very ancient and certainly not part of any standard Earth-based biochemical testing regime. It has a bitter, oily taste. It can't be readily disguised in food."  
  
"Ever tried the salad in the cafeteria?" Jason quips.  
  
"Let's start the old fashioned way and compare the work schedules of our three known victims," I say. "Maybe something'll suggest itself."  
  
  
  
The security officer on duty nods as we enter the elevator. He's a regular and sees us coming and going all the time. When Jason hits the button for the executive level, the security scanner activates and the idiot light on the panel changes colour from red to green as the computer reads our ID.  
  
When we step out of the elevator, there's a single security officer at the station in the lift lobby. I haven't seen him before and he regards us with what might be suspicion as we move toward Anderson's office but doesn't move to stop us.  
  
I use my G-Force override code to open Gunny's door, then cross the room and use the code again to open the Chief's office, leaving Princess and Jason to check Gunny's office and the Science Director's office, respectively.  
  
The big chair behind the desk is cold when I sit in it. The desk is more or less tidy, but cluttered. It feels all wrong to be sitting here, looking out through the doorway. Whenever I'm in this office, I'm usually facing the other way, looking in at this chair instead of out of it.  
  
My hand trembles as I reach to switch on Chief Anderson's computer terminal. Again, I use a G-Force override code to access his personal information, but the computer demands a password. I frown, wondering if I should call Zark and have him access the schedule for me.  
  
Movement in Gunny's area outside catches my eye. A woman in the dark blue uniform of Internal Security walks in and says something to Princess. I hear Princess' voice, too soft for me to make out the words, then the woman continues walking until she's standing just inside the doorway. She regards me with a look that tells me she is just as uncomfortable seeing me in this chair as I am, being here.  
  
"Commander," she says in a clipped, brittle voice. "Zark said you were here."  
  
"Major... Jones," I struggle to recall the name. She's the coordinator for the Chief's personal security detail. A lot of good it did him.  
  
"May I be of assistance, sir?" she asks coolly. When an armed uniformed officer asks if you need help, what they really want to know is why you're some place you aren't supposed to be.  
  
"I'm reconstructing the Chief's movements over the last few weeks. You wouldn't happen to know the password for his schedule?" I ask, knowing the answer will be no.  
  
"May I, sir?" she indicates the terminal.  
  
Bemused, I stand as she walks around the desk, and I step aside to allow her to slip into the chair. She plugs her palm computer into the docking slot on the Chief's desk, logs me out and logs herself in, her fingers skipping quickly over the keys.  
  
"Of course," I realise. "You have to be able to access his schedule to work your own squad rosters."  
  
"It's a synchronised copy, sir." She taps the Enter key and the Chief's schedule illuminates the screen. "If you've got your palm unit, I'll download the information for you."  
  
I swallow the prickly lump in my throat. "I don't have it on me." I step toward the door. "I'll just use the terminal here."  
  
"Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?" Jones asks.  
  
"That'll be all for now, Major," I tell her.  
  
"Please tell me when you're ready to leave, sir," she says, standing up. She starts walking toward the door, then she turns back, her expression troubled. "Commander... How is he?"  
  
"As well as can be expected," I say.  
  
"Thank you, sir," she says.  
  
"Uh, Major?" I ask as she turns to go.  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"Working late?"  
  
"Yes, sir," she says, and gives me a disapproving look. "Since my team's off active duty, I'm reworking the staff rosters. I've had a lot of sick calls this week. It's not unusual for me to be here at this time of night, sir."  
  
The prickly lump in my throat is still there. I wonder if this is what hairballs feel like for cats. "How would I get hold of a copy of Dr Umzabe's schedule?" I ask.  
  
"Dr Umzabe's files would have been archived, sir. Zark should be able to retrieve the records," she says.  
  
"Thank you," I tell her, and she walks away, heading for the executive kitchen.  
  
My throat feels like someone's applied sandpaper. I stare at the Chief's schedule for a moment. It's a mass of appointments and blocks of time marked, 'admin.' He's been spending more time than usual here, rather than Center Neptune in the last few weeks. I sniff, find a tissue and blow my nose. It's no good, I need a hot drink, so I get up and make my way out through the reception area and across the central corridor to the kitchen. Jones is in there, making a cup of tea. She nods to me with icy courtesy. I open the cupboard and take the coffee can out. I don't normally drink a lot of coffee, and never when we're on a mission, but lately I've had a few cups when I've been up here and I could use the caffeine boost right now. It's certainly an acquired taste, it has that bitter, oily...  
  
"Of course," I say out loud.  
  
"Sir?" Jones pauses in the act of removing the tea bag from her teacup.  
  
"You came and checked in on me when I was in the Chief's office."  
  
"Yes, sir," she says, eyeing me as though I might be in need of medication.  
  
"Why did you do that?"  
  
Jones blinks, and answers me without understanding. "You were in his -- Chief Anderson's -- office. Is something the matter, sir?"  
  
"People come and go up here all the time, right?"  
  
"Well, yes, sir. Staff, visitors -- you have to have an ID badge with an authorisation coding, though, otherwise the lift doors won't open. There's a sensor --"  
  
"Of course!" _When you hear hoofbeats, don't think of zebras!_  
  
Jones frowns at me, clearly puzzled. "Are you quite all right, sir?"  
  
"Don't think of zebras!" I grab the coffee can. "Major, can you ask Zark to get me a list of every staff member who has a clearance for this floor?"  
  
"Of course, sir --" she starts to say, but I'm through the door and sprinting the short distance back to Gunny's work area.  
  
"Princess!"  
  
"Mark, what is it?" Princess asks, her face registering alarm.  
  
"Bitter and oily! What's bitter and oily that everyone drinks up here?" I brandish the coffee can.  
  
Jason rushes in from down the hall. "What's going on?"  
  
"We need to get this coffee tested," I declare.  
  
"I'll run it over to the lab at Seahorse Base," Jason volunteers, and takes the coffee can from me. "I'll get the biochem team back out of bed and I'll call you as soon as I've got anything!" He runs for the elevator.  
  
"How could I have missed that?" Princess wonders aloud.  
  
"None of us are thinking too clearly," I try to reassure her.  
  
"That's for sure," she replies, giving me a look, which makes me sure she's referring to this afternoon. I lower my head and try to find my tongue as quickly as possible. I speak without looking at her. It seems easier that way.  
  
"Princess, I'll never be able to fully express how sorry I am for what I did to you. I can only hope that someday you'll forgive me." I find the courage to look up at her and I see a stunned expression on her face. Jason was right. I never have apologised properly or nearly as often as I should. "I swear to you, I'll never let myself do anything like that again," I finish. Princess doesn't say anything for quite some time and her silence becomes almost unbearable, but I don't know what else to say. I stare down at my hands and wait for her reply.  
  
"I didn't know you had it in you," she says at last. I'm not sure if she means in me to apologise, or in me to treat her that way, so I say nothing. Either way, I deserve whatever scolding she decides to give me. She certainly knows how when she feels I need it. "You know I've never been able to stay angry with you for any length of time, Mark."  
  
"We're not talking about a little disagreement or argument that just can be brushed under the carpet." I get up and walk over to look out the window. Anderson's office overlooks ISO Plaza, otherwise known as Tornado Terrace, the designer wind tunnel from Hell. It's dark, now, with only the lights from Amano's Bar across the street showing through a soft, steady drizzle of rain. The storm is past, leaving the city washed about as clean as it gets. If only it could wash me clean.  
  
"If you'd pushed me down because we were having an argument or because you were angry directly with me, it'd be different, but you had to stand by helplessly when the Chief collapsed, so..."  
  
"Sure, rub it in," I say, not bothering to turn around.  
  
"It bothers you that Jason and I were able to react and respond more quickly than you, doesn't it?"  
  
"It bothers me that I wasn't able to react at all, Princess. I just stood there like an idiot. I'm supposed to be your commander!"  
  
"The Chief's been like a father to you. You reacted like a human being. Jason and I got there first, that's all." I feel Princess's hand on my shoulder and I turn to face her. Tears stand in her eyes. "It's a difficult time for all of us, Mark."  
  
I reach out and pull her towards me to give her a hug. She rests her forehead on my shoulder and weeps silently. I wait for her to regain her composure. Princess is stronger than she thinks she is, but for now, I hold her. I guess sometimes, it's better if I can put being her commander aside for a moment or two.  



	6. This Poisoned Cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The G-Force team races to find the source of the poison.

**Princess**  
  
Dr Galbraith arrives at the executive suite wearing a suit, but no tie. Roly Galbraith is a clean shaven man of average height and slight build. His brown thatch is starting to recede slightly and the worry is patent on his face. He has the kind of face you want to trust: kindly and open. At first, he seems nothing like Chief Anderson, but you don't rise to the rank of Deputy Chief of Galaxy Security by being an all around nice guy.  
  
He makes as if to sit in Anderson's chair, then thinks better of it and walks over to sit on the sofa, instead. We follow him. "What have you got?" he asks without preamble.  
  
"Jason just called from the Seahorse Base lab complex," Mark says. "The coffee in the executive kitchen contains heartsbane."  
  
Galbraith nods. "It figures. You can mask a lot of things with coffee, and just about everyone drinks it."  
  
"How do you feel?" I ask him.  
  
Galbraith shakes his head. "I haven't been drinking it, lately. I switched to decaf a couple months ago..." He visibly pulls himself together. "At least it isn't a pathogen," he says. "Where's the coffee, now?"  
  
"At Seahorse Base," Mark says. "It's under lock and key in the toxicology lab."  
  
"We must go through, what... a can every couple of weeks," Galbraith says, one hand at his chin. "From what we know about this poison, though, it's rare, much too rare to poison a whole building full of people at random, unless Spectra's found a way to synthesise it in bulk... I'm going to have to get a team in on this." He pulls his palm unit from his jacket pocket. "Zark," he says, "get me the Lab Director at Seahorse Base."  
  
While Acting Chief Galbraith makes his call, I wander out of the Chief's office, feeling overwhelmed by everything that's happening. Someone approaches down the corridor: it's Major Jones, briefcase in hand, coat on, hat and purse tucked under one arm. She must be heading home. I still feel bad about not trusting her and her squad. My friend Fran is one of her junior officers, and I know Fran would never turn traitor. "Um, Major?" I venture. "About earlier... Josh seemed upset and..." I struggle for words. "It's nothing personal."  
  
"It's all right, ma'am," Jones says. "I was a bit cross at first, but you obviously think that Chief Anderson's heart attack wasn't a natural event. If that's true, then an assassin got to him on my watch. In your position, I wouldn't trust me, either. I'm sure Lieutenant Maxwell won't hold it against you."  
  
"Thanks," I say. She nods and starts to head toward the elevators.  
  
"Wait up!" Mark calls. He's running out of the Chief's office, followed at a more sedate pace by Roly Galbraith.  
  
Jones stops and turns on her heel. "Sirs?"  
  
"You mentioned sick calls, earlier," Mark says. "What were the details?"  
  
Jones shrugs. "It's this bug that's going around. Headaches, fever... sort of a flu-like thing." She lets her briefcase fall to the ground and the hand that was holding it goes to her cheek. "The Chief was ill," she says. "I thought he might have been coming down with it... I didn't... Have we all been exposed to something?"  
  
"It isn't a pathogen, Major," Galbraith says. "This information is classified and compartmentalised. You're not to discuss any of what you've said or heard tonight with anyone other than myself or the G-Force team, understood?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Jones says.  
  
"Let's go sit down," Mark says. "I need to ask you some questions."  
  
We settle around the table in one of the conference rooms. Jones makes herself small in one of the chairs, her hands clasped in her lap, her face pale under her ash blonde bangs.  
  
"How many of your team drink coffee?" Galbraith asks.  
  
"Most of them, to some degree, sir," Jones says.  
  
"According to the staffing schedule," Galbraith says, consulting a sheet of paper, "Rossi, Falcone and Greene have been off all week, presumably with the flu?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"All of them coffee drinkers?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Have you suffered any ill effects, yourself?"  
  
"No, sir." She shakes her head.  
  
"You a coffee drinker, Major?"  
  
"Hardly ever, sir. I prefer tea. If I'm working the evening shift, he -- Chief Anderson -- drinks tea, too." She swallows and bites her lip. "He hates the way I make coffee. He says I make it taste like it's been dead for a week."  
  
"What about Sergeant McAllister?" Galbraith asks.  
  
"Gunny usually only drinks coffee in the mornings. He likes to drink red chai in the afternoons. We both buy our tea from the same shop and sometimes we pick up each other's orders, only chai's been out of stock for the last fortnight, so he's been drinking lot more coffee than usual." She notices the look on Mark's face at the mention of Gunnery Sergeant McAllister and frowns. "Is Gunny all right, sir?"  
  
"He will be," Galbraith says. "What else do you know about the beverage preferences of staff in Exec?"  
  
"Moira -- Director Kelly's secretary drinks a fair bit of coffee," Jones recalls. "She was here today but she said she was feeling off colour. Director Winters' secretary Sallyanne's a real addict but she said the coffee started tasting funny about, oh... six weeks... no, eight weeks ago, so she started bringing her own coffee to work."  
  
"Any other sick calls you know of?" Galbraith asks.  
  
"Most of the other protection teams have had officers calling in sick for the last ten days or so."  
  
"What about the other floors?"  
  
Jones shakes her head. "Sorry, sir, couldn't say."  
  
"We're going to have to screen everyone," Galbraith says. "We'll tell them we're trying to isolate whatever virus it is making people sick so that we can distribute a specific anti-viral. In the meantime, I want every can of coffee in this building collected, labelled and tested."  
  
"Tonight," Mark concludes. "Come on, Princess. Let's grab some labels and a couple of magic markers from Gunny's desk and we'll get started."  
  
Jones glances around as we get to our feet. "Can I help in any way, sirs?"  
  
"No," Galbraith says, his expression gentle. "Go home, get some rest. Remember, this is classified at the highest level."  
  
"Of course, sir," Jones says, and walks away. Once she's gone, Galbraith opens a channel on his palm unit. "Zark," he says, "monitor all of Major Jones' communications. I want the details of any and all calls she makes from now on transmitted directly to me."  
  
"You don't trust her," I say.  
  
He meets my eyes with a cynical look. "I don't trust anyone," he says. I wonder if that statement includes me.  
  
I follow Mark out to Gunny's work station. He's got the labels and the markers. "Let's go," he says.  
  
Zark gives us directions to every kitchen, break room and pantry in the building. We purloin a trolley from the Supply Department and start stacking up coffee cans, starting on the hundredth floor where Executive have their offices and support staff, and working our way down. Zark uses his override to get us into the areas used by other ISO agencies and the Council itself. When Jason arrives, he joins us and surveys the stack of coffee cans and jars on the trolley. "We're going to need a truck for all this stuff!" he declares.  
  
"Wanna go hot wire one from Motor Pool?" Mark quips.  
  
Jason grins at him. "It could happen," he says.  
  
Mark turns serious. "Can you take over for me, Jason? I want to go and review some surveillance tapes that Zark's compiling."  
  
"Sure," he says. "You feeling any better?"  
  
"I'm fine," Mark says, but his gaze slides away to his left as he says it.  
  
"How much coffee have you had?" I ask, my heart in my throat.  
  
"You know I never touch the stuff," Mark says, but again, he doesn't meet my eyes. "Hey," he says, "hoofbeats and zebras. I caught a chill. An honest-to-goodness chill. I'm fine." He hurries away.  
  
"He's lying," I say to Jason once Mark's out of earshot.  
  
"I know," Jason says, "and I'm going to haul him out to see Kate Halloran in the morning."  
  
"Let's get this coffee collected," I sigh.  
  
  
  
**Chief Anderson**  
  
"Left... behind!" Keyop says, disconsolately.  
  
"Yeah, well, get used to it," Tiny replies, and I hear the resignation in his voice.  
  
I let my eyes open, and blink, sticky lashed against the light.  
  
"Now look," Tiny mumbles, "we woke him up."  
  
"I'm awake more than you think," I manage to say, and my voice is still rattling and ancient.  
  
I sound like an old man.  
  
Keyop makes as if to leap onto the bed, then catches himself. I make a feeble gesture with one wired and tubed hand.  
  
"Come on. Just no jumping."  
  
With excessive, almost comical caution, the boy clambers up to sit by my knees, legs dangling over the edge of the mattress, a concerned frown on features too young to bear all that worry.  
  
"I'm going to be fine, Keyop," I tell him, and I wonder if the wry smile I attempt comes out as a grimace, since he doesn't smile back.  
  
Tiny stands silent and motionless, almost invisible in the room. It's a knack he has, I realise, one that he's developed over the last few years, of going unnoticed.  
  
It's a field skill I had, once. One that takes a long time to learn. Not everyone manages it. Mark can't do it, not out in the open, the way Tiny can, just go still and disappear, like that.  
  
"Why don't you sit down, Tiny?" I suggest, my voice a cracked whisper. "No... bring the chair over here." I try to sit up and fumble for some water, but Tiny is there before me, moving with speed and agility that belies his size.  
  
"Let me," he says, and pours fresh water into the cup, handing it to me.  
  
My hands shake, and I manage a sip.  
  
"Thank you," I tell him, and he pulls up the chair, then he goes still again.  
  
I watch him, my heartbeat echoed by the sound of the monitor. I can understand how some cardiac patients start thinking that the monitor is actually pacing them, how they come to fear that they'll die if the leads come off. You get used to the sound when it's there all the time, almost as though the steady beep... beep... beep _is_ the heartbeat, and not just a machine recording the electrical impulses given off by the body. I drink some more water. It's cold. I crave coffee, but if I were to ask, what I'd get would be a lecture from Kate Halloran. Clumsily, I put the cup on the nightstand, but I manage to do it without spilling anything. That I should count this as an achievement gives me some insight into just how sick I am.  
  
"How're you doin', Chief?" Tiny enquires.  
  
"I'm all right," I say, then a sort of wheezing cackle escapes me, a sound like dead leaves. "As long as you have an extremely loose definition of 'all right'."  
  
He smiles at that. "They say if you've kept your sense of humour, then you're doing okay," he relates sagely.  
  
"Then it must be a good sign," I agree. "What time is it?"  
  
"About ten thirty," Tiny says. "PM," he adds, realising that I have no idea.  
  
"Shouldn't you get some rest?" I ask.  
  
Keyop makes a face. "Had... nap," he protests.  
  
"Maybe you could take another one for me," Tiny suggests. Surprisingly, Keyop doesn't fuss. He bounces off the bed, gives me a cheery wave, and races down the corridor, leaving the door to swing shut on its hinges, still closing long after the boy has vanished in a streak of bright juvenile energy.  
  
Tiny sighs, and it speaks volumes.  
  
"How's Gunny doing?" I ask.  
  
"He's... well, he's not exactly 'okay'," Tiny recounts, "but he's..."  
  
"Better off than me?" I angle.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"It's to be expected," I say, and my own voice sounds far away. I'm starting to drift back into a haze of pethidine and I struggle to swim through a mist of treacle. "He's young, and he's fit... I'm a middle-aged desk jockey..."  
  
Tiny starts to say something, but the treacle rises up and claims me and I sink back down into poppy field dreams.  
  
  
  
The poppies are bright vermilion, just the orange side of scarlet, staring wide-mouthed into a brilliant azure sky. Cronus' uniform is a darker, bloodier shade of red as he strides through the flowers, the stems bending and swaying to admit his passage. I glance down to see if I'm still trailing monitor leads and tubes, but I'm wearing a familiar suit and tie and shoes. There's a scratch across the toe of my right shoe which I really should polish out.  
  
Cronus draws close, and his eyes are hidden behind the impregnable fortress of his visor, which reflects a distorted image of my own face.  
  
"Marshall?" I greet him using his true name, the one I first knew him by. "You're dead."  
  
"Marshall Hawking died fifteen years ago, my friend, whether you want to admit it or not," he says.  
  
"Am I dead, too?" I ask him.  
  
"Do you want to be?" Cronus parries, without smiling.  
  
"Not yet," I reply.  
  
"That's fortunate," he says, as dry as ever, and it's all the answer I'm going to get.  
  
"Why am I here, Marsh?" I ask him, and he offers a wry twist of a smile.  
  
"You must have your reasons," he suggests. "What did you want to talk about?"  
  
"What did I always want to talk about with you?" I recall. "I used to raise the subject, and you'd evade me, or you'd get angry... you never wanted to talk about Mark."  
  
"Of course I _wanted_ to talk about Mark," he sighs wearily. "I wanted to talk about him, with him... I wanted to be his father... but I was afraid... I was afraid to step down off the pedestal that was Colonel Cronus, the Ace Pilot, the War Hero. Just like you're afraid, now. All those sacrifices I made... that wasn't bravery, that was cowardice. It was easier to be a Hero than it was to be a man. I had to die twice to learn that lesson. You, at least, have another chance."  
  
The red of his uniform begins to fade to a swimming grey blur, and he's floating away from me... No. It's me. I'm the one floating, falling, fluttering like a leaf on the wind.  
  
"Don't blow it, David," I hear him say, from a long way off.  
  
And I drift.  
  
  
  
**Mark**  
  
Zark has hours and hours of surveillance footage for me to review. "I can't watch it all," I tell him, my head in my hands, my elbows resting on Anderson's blotter. I'm tired. I'd love a cup of coffee but of course that's out of the question. "In any of the vision, is anyone adding anything to the coffee can?"  
  
" _No, Commander_ ," Zark says. " _I've examined the feed, and nobody does anything out of the ordinary. The cans appear to be sealed when they arrive, and they're opened by a variety of staff members, seemingly at random, when the old cans are emptied._ "  
  
"What are they using to cut open the foil seals?" I ask.  
  
" _A variety of kitchen utensils,_ " Zark says. " _Any of the knives, a couple of the admin officers use teaspoon handles, and one day Chief Anderson was particularly impatient and used a ball point pen._ "  
  
"Okay..." I yawn and stretch, leaning back in Anderson's big leather chair. It's really comfortable. I could sleep in this thing. "Who delivers it?"  
  
" _The same staff member, every time._ "  
  
"Oh?"  
  
" _Shall I run the vision_?"  
  
"Yeah." I watch as Zark plays a series of sequences: in each of them, the kitchen door opens and a man walks in pushing a trolley. He looks to be about five ten, with brown hair and blue eyes. He checks all the cupboards, then re-stocks them with coffee, tea bags, sugar, sweetener, creamer, plastic spoons, disposable cups, those funny little wooden stirrer dealies and napkins. It happens time and time again, the date stamp indicating that he comes in twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Nothing there... No. Wait. "Zark," I say, "replay those sequences."  
  
" _Certainly, Commander_." Zark repeats the footage.  
  
"Stop it, there," I say. The image freezes. "Zoom in on the trolley, will you?" The trolley seems to grow bigger on the screen. "Put it on the big screen," I order, and Zark complies. I stand up and walk over to stare at the picture. "Zoom in further," I say, pointing. "Centre the image here. Down. Right. Stop."  
  
There's something that catches my attention. When the catering hand re-stocks the tea, sugar and sundry items, he does so from plastic bins arranged all around the trolley. The coffee cans and boxes of tea are stacked on the bottom and middle shelves of his trolley, respectively. Every time he replaces the coffee, though, he pulls a can from the middle shelf, where the tea is kept. The image is starting to pixellate at the zoom I've requested, but it looks as though the can may be marked. "Zark," I say. "Find the corresponding image in each sequence and put it up on screen, zoomed the same way."  
  
There it is: each time the coffee can is replaced, it's from the tea shelf, and there's one of those little yellow dot stickers on it, the kind you buy from the stationer for marking file folders. I activate my communicator. "Princess, ears on."  
  
" _Ears on, Mark_ ," Princess responds.  
  
"How are you and Jason doing with those coffee cans?" I ask.  
  
" _We're down to the eighty sixth floor_ ," Princess tells me. " _This is going to take all night_!"  
  
"Maybe not," I say. "Take a look at the cans and tell me something: do any of them have little yellow dots on them?"  
  
" _Little yellow dots_?"  
  
"A little paper circle -- the adhesive label kind."  
  
" _I'm looking, but I can't see any_." There's a hollow _THUNK_ and a clatter. " _Ow! I dropped one on my foot... No, Mark. None of these cans have little yellow dot labels on_."  
  
"I may have found a clue," I conclude. "Have Jason take what you've collected so far to the lab at Seahorse Base. Then you go get some rest."  
  
" _What about you? Are you going to follow your own advice_?"  
  
"Sure. Jason, too, once the coffee's been delivered." I close the channel. "Zark," I say, "can you identify the guy delivering the coffee?"  
  
" _Of course, Commander,_ " Zark says. " _His name is Jerry Tanzos, a Level One Catering Hand. Aged forty six. Date of birth October twenty first 2116, commenced with Galaxy Security in June 2156 in his current substantive position. He lives at eight two three four Anchor Street, New Balboa. He drives a white Nissan panel truck, registration --"_  
  
"I need a print out of a current ID photograph," I say.  
  
" _Coming right up_ ," Zark says, and the printer on Anderson's return whines as it starts to warm up. I sit down on the sofa to wait for the photograph. My eyelids want to fall all the way to my feet. I stretch out and close my eyes, just for a minute or two, just... **  
  
**


	7. The Pawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thou shalt not suffer a poisoner to live.

**Chief Anderson**  
  
"You awake, David?" Kate asks me.  
  
"Yes," I tell her, and open my eyes.  
  
"Good news," she says. "Your condition's stabilised enough that we can move you up to the medical facility at Camp Parker. We're taking a little ride."  
  
"Understood," I agree. Princess enters the room. She looks exhausted. Roly Galbraith is close behind her, looking frayed around the edges. "I thought I was the one who was supposed to look like hell, here?" I quip.  
  
"Couldn't let you hog all the limelight," Princess says with a smile. "How do you feel?"  
  
"I could sleep for a week, but I'd have nightmares about the paperwork," I tell her.  
  
"Leave the paperwork to me," Galbraith says. "That's the last thing you should be worried about, in your condition."  
  
"Thought I was getting better," I argue.  
  
"You're still less than twenty four hours out from a serious infarct, David," Kate tells me, sharp in her concern. She checks the settings on the monitoring equipment. "Under normal circumstances, we wouldn't dream of moving you so soon."  
  
I consider this piece of information. My mind, muddled with analgesics, struggles to connect the dots. "So why I am awake and talking to you like this?"  
  
"You have some very good doctors with the best cutting edge medical technology at their disposal," Kate says, carefully avoiding my eyes. "You know that, it's your agency."  
  
We keep a supply of specialised cerebonic repair nanites at Science Center's cerebonic lab in case a member of G-Force is seriously injured. The microscopic devices can get inside cells to accelerate the healing of damaged tissue. "Bob was at Science Center when I had my attack," I recall, keeping my voice low so that only Kate can hear me. "He used the emergency stuff from the lab, didn't he?"  
  
Kate removes the sterile wrapping from a vacuum vial and hooks it into the cannula in the vein in the back of my hand. "That'd be a serious breach of protocol," she murmurs, staring at the dark blood that wells into the tube. She disconnects it, puts the cap back on the cannula and scribbles the date and time on the label attached to the vial.  
  
"Wouldn't be hard to prove," I tell her.  
  
"Easy as falling off a log," Kate says, and checks my IV.  
  
If the tables had been turned -- if it had been Bob or Kate's life hanging in the balance, I would have done the same thing. "Good thing I'm in no condition to run the tests, then," I conclude.  
  
"I can't imagine what you mean by that, David," Kate says. "It's strange, what people say when they're doped up to the eyeballs with pethidine, isn't it?"  
  
"Bizarre," I agree. I catch her hand and give it a feeble squeeze. "Tell Bob I said thanks."  
  
Between them, with Kate directing, my impromptu orderlies manage to move me onto a gurney and manhandle the oxygen bottle into place. The monitoring equipment is exchanged for the smaller, compact version, which Kate secures to the head of the gurney.  
  
"All set?" asks Galbraith, addressing Princess.  
  
"As ready as we'll ever be," Princess answers over her shoulder. "How's Gunny?"  
  
"Comfortable, and making jokes about the in-flight movies all having Zark in them," Galbraith chuckles. "He's doing fine."  
  
"Then let's move," Princess says.  
  
They wheel me out into the corridor and I as we move, I manage to interpret the display on Roly's wristwatch. If I've got it right (his wrist is moving and the watch face isn't at an angle I'm accustomed to) it's barely two in the morning. We take the elevator up to rooftop level. My suspicions are confirmed: it's dark, and the air is cold. On the pad is a Quanto-Tobor Multi-Modal Transport with Day-Glo green stripes and the word 'RESCUE' emblazoned on its crisp white livery. It's one of our medical transports.  
  
Aboard the transport, Princess and Galbraith take me to the sick bay, where Gunny McAllister is already secure. He offers me a rare smile. His face is grey beneath the ebony skin, and he seems to have shrunken into himself. I struggle to keep the shock from betraying itself in my expression.  
  
"Hell, sir," he says, "you look worse than I feel."  
  
"I feel so much better for knowing that," I tell him sourly.  
  
"Have a safe journey," Galbraith says. "I'm heading back to the Tower." He leaves and closes the hatch behind him. Princess makes sure it's locked and sealed.  
  
Keyop sticks his head around the doorway to the cockpit.  
  
"Ready... for take-off!" he announces.  
  
Princess makes a few adjustments and heads forward. "You're in charge back here, Keyop," she says. "On my way, Tiny!" she calls to our pilot.  
  
Keyop bounces in between Gunny and myself.  
  
"Keep you... company," he declares, with a hundred watt smile.  
  
"Just what the doctor ordered," McAllister mumbles.  
  
He is, indeed.  
  
  
  
**Mark**  
  
Jason is shaking my shoulder. "Hey, skipper," he says. "You asleep on the job?"  
  
"What?" I mumble. "I must've dozed off," I say, and sit up. My head swims and my throat's on fire.  
  
"Here you go, Mister Misery," Jason says, and thrusts a cup of hot tea into my hands. I sip at it and make a face. It's laced with lemon and honey, so it's sweeter than I like, but it feels good going down. He hands me a silver foil blister pack: herbal cold and flu capsules. _Horseradish, Garlic and Vitamin C_. "I checked with Kate. She says it's okay for you to take these."  
  
"You turned me in to Kate?" I moan.  
  
"Bite me," he says, and sips at a cup of take out coffee from the little French place up the street. I look out of the big picture window. It's dawn, woolly grey clouds tinged with pink and gold. "Zark clued us in on what you'd found," Jason says. "I was all for kicking you in the head to wake you up, but Galbraith insisted you be allowed to sleep. What a wuss."  
  
"Thanks," I tell my second. I pop two of the capsules and swallow them with the tea.  
  
"Kate said you could have these, too," Jason says, and passes me a box of throat lozenges. I tear the wrapper open and put one in my mouth. They're the extra strength kind, with local anaesthetic, so my tongue goes numb but so does my throat and relief is bliss.  
  
Outside, street lamps are flickering off for the day.  
  
"What kind of trouble did you get into while I was asleep?" I mumble around the lozenge, and stretch until I'm sure my joints will pop.  
  
"The rest of the team took the Chief and Gunny to Camp Parker," Jason says. "Galbraith's called an emergency meeting of the G-Sec Executive Directors at eight and another one of the ISO Chiefs of Staff at ten. He's briefed the President, and the last time I checked, he was headed home to shower and change. You were right about the coffee, y'know. None of the other cans tested positive, and none of them have little yellow dots on 'em."  
  
"What about the ones in Catering and the Quartermaster's Store?" I ask.  
  
"A cleanup crew's already been through and removed every can of coffee in the entire building. They're over at Seahorse Base doing the same thing, now. So far, they've drawn a blank." He chuckles. "Can you imagine what's going to happen when all those staffers get in to start their day and there's no coffee? There could be a riot."  
  
"So, our best lead --"  
  
Jason brandishes the photograph I printed out just before I fell asleep. "Jerry Tanzos, of New Balboa."  
  
"Did Counter Espionage bring him in?" I ask.  
  
"Not that I've heard," Jason says.  
  
"If he reports for duty and sees the coffee's gone, he could make a run for it," I say. "Jason, he's the only link we have to whoever's behind this. We have to bring him in."  
  
"Which is why I woke you up instead of letting you have your beauty sleep," Jason tells me. "And, man, let me tell you, the way you look, it wouldn't have gone astray."  
  
"Wise ass," I mutter, and head for the door. "Give me a couple minutes," I say, and make my way to the men's room. There are some things of a morning that just won't wait.  
  
  
  
Centre City is quiet in the cold grey light of morning as Jason's car glides through near-empty streets. The City is still stretching and yawning, bleary eyed and slow-witted, prepatory to starting the day. We wend our way through the suburbs and cross the railway line. I stare out at the houses and gardens that drift past, impatient to get to our destination.  
  
The delay is maddening, but I manage to restrain myself. Sensing my agitation, Jason says, "Maybe you should let me ask the questions." I don't acknowledge his request either way. I should fix in my mind how we're going to proceed, because the way I feel, I need a game plan or I'm sure to botch this, and we need as much information as we can get.  
  
"Are we going to transmute?" he asks. "We're not exactly on the upmarket side of town, and I'd feel more comfortable in uniform just in case he keeps a gun handy for nosy teenagers who come snooping around."  
  
"No," I say. "It'll put him on the defensive."  
  
"He's going to be plenty defensive as soon as he realises we're on to him." Jason parks a little over a block from Jerry's dwelling. The walk gives me time to look around. Jerry lives in the middle row home of a stretch of five. The pattern of homes repeats itself many times up and down both sides of the street. There doesn't appear to be any off-road parking for residents and just about every parking space is occupied. Few of the vehicles appear to be newer than ten years old, some maybe as old as thirty. Many of the homes are in need of repair. Most need siding replaced or, at the very least painted. The concrete walks are cracked and uneven. I doubt children are able to ride their bikes or use roller skates with any degree of success. It's trash day, apparently. The kerb is lined with garbage cans and piles of bags. Not even my stuffy nose can block out the odour permeating the air.  
  
"Makes you glad you live out of town, doesn't it?" asks Jason.  
  
"Sure does," I reply.  
  
We climb the steps to Jerry's porch, and Jason rings the doorbell. We stare at a relatively new steel door behind a screen door while we wait for Jerry to answer. After a few moments, Jason leans on the button again. Jerry opens the door. His eyes widen with recognition, and he attempts to close the door quickly -- 'attempt' being the operative word, because Jason throws the screen door wide, grabs Jerry by the shirt and drives him back into the house. I'm left standing on the porch, glancing around to see if anyone noticed our arrival.  
  
I pull the screen door open and walk into the house. I close the steel door behind me, because Jerry is hollering to be let go. The less the neighbours hear, the better. The interior is dimly lit by one lamp in the living room. Most of the furniture looks as if it should be out front with the rest of the trash. The air quality inside isn't much improved, either. Is this life on what Galaxy Security pays its least valued workers?  
  
"Okay, Jerry, cool it," I say, while Jason wrenches Jerry's arms behind his back to keep him under control. "We have a few questions for you."  
  
"Who do you think you two are?" he wails. "I don't know you. You show me no ID. I don't have to tell you nothing."  
  
"Who arranged for you to deliver tainted coffee to G-Sec Executive?" Jason asks.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," Jerry says as he struggles in vain against Jason's hold.  
  
I step close to Jerry. "We have surveillance video, Jerry. Of you, deliberately delivering marked cans of coffee containing a lethal Spectran poison. One man is dead and people are getting sick because of you."  
  
"And for a guy who doesn't know what we're talking about," Jason adds, ostensibly addressing me, "he seemed to be in an awful hurry to slam the door in our faces without even asking what we wanted."  
  
"Who's your boss, Jerry?" I ask again. He fidgets, but keeps his eyes on the carpet. "I guess he doesn't want to talk," I say to Jason.  
  
Jason shrugs, then without warning, he spins Jerry around and slams him face first against a cheaply panelled living room wall. "I'll ask you an easier question," he says softly and almost intimately into Jerry's ear. "Where did you get the coffee you used to supply the Executive Suite?"  
  
"I tell you, she'll kill me," he whimpers.  
  
"Buddy," I say, "if you're mixed up with Spectra, you're as good as dead anyway if you don't help us and let us protect you."  
  
"She supplied it to me, but she got it from the new distributor over in Ashford's Industrial Park."  
  
"New distributor?" I ask.  
  
"They've only been there about three months. I can't remember the name of the place."  
  
I hear a click behind me and spin around to see a young blonde woman holding a gun with both hands at arm's length. Her facial features are strikingly angular; her chin sharp, her cheekbones high.  
  
"Both of you step away from Jerry," she orders, her nostrils flaring and her hands quivering ever so slightly. She speaks English perfectly, but I notice a hint of accent that warns me we are probably dealing with a Spectra agent, quite possibly a member of their elite Galaxy Girl squad.  
  
I raise my hands shoulder high with my palms facing her. "Easy," I say to her. "There's no need for the gun. We're not here to harm your boyfriend. We're unarmed," I lie. Well, partially lie, because our weapons aren't easily accessed in our civilian clothes, but I'd rather have her think we're a couple of punk kids that wandered in off the street.  
  
"I suppose having him up against the wall is some kind of game then?" she asks, sarcastically.  
  
"Let him go," I command. Jason hesitates to obey and the woman fires at him. Jason ducks, the bullet barely missing him. He lets go of Jerry and steps back, holding eye contact with the woman. "Who are you?" she demands. "Why are you here?" I don't doubt that she means to kill us, but she wants to know what she's up against before she does. I consider rushing her, but the gun's too close for comfort. She has the pistol aimed at my chest. The special fabric of my G-Force shirt, even in civilian mode, will keep the bullet from penetrating my body, but at this range, the impact would shatter my sternum and do enough damage to kill me. She utters a short snort of contempt. "You're pretty good at asking questions," she says. "How about some answers?"  
  
I wonder how much she overheard? "We're from G-Sec Science Division," I tell her, threading a lie in among the truth. "This scum's poisoning people and our lab supervisor won't pass it up to Counter Espionage for action. Says there's not enough evidence."  
  
The blonde woman smiles. "How I love the processes of the public service," she says. "We've wasted enough time," she decides and turns the gun on Jerry. She pulls the trigger three times in rapid succession. The look of surprise on his face as he does a little dance from the impact before falling to the floor would be comic if it weren't so tragic.  
  
By the time she fires at Jason, we're both leaping forward, low and fast, but she spins away from us, just twisting free of our hands and sprinting out the door with a speed that leaves us virtually standing still. We gain the street just in time to see her jump into a car. We race after her, but the car is pulling away from the kerb with a squeal of tyres and a stench of hot rubber. With a low whine, it transforms, panel by panel, into a shiny black microcopter and lifts off. We hear sirens in the distance. It's apparent they're headed in our direction.  
  
"Do we stay or do we chase?" Jason asks.  
  
"Follow procedure," I say. "We show our ID when the police get here, obtain their cooperation and have them secure the scene until a team from Counter Espionage Division can get here, then it's CED's problem."   
  
"Right," he says.   
  
We walk back inside the house and transmute. Somehow, we tend to encounter less resistance from Law Enforcement Officers when we're in our battle gear. I find myself morbidly fascinated by the squalor of Jerry's home. I find a clue to his circumstances on a scarred coffee table in the living room: a casino chip and a pile of losing betting tickets from a bookmaker. When CED follows this up, I won't be surprised if they find evidence of a Spectra mole connected to the bookie. Given that Jerry's killer got away, the Spectrans will probably be long gone by the time our people get to investigate. I let my breath out in a little huff of frustration and wish I had another one of those throat lozenges, but they're in the glove compartment of Jason's car so I'll have to wait.  
  
When the police arrive, they're shocked and surprised to find us waiting for them. They don't argue when we ask them to secure the scene for us. Jason calls to me from a back room. He's thrown open the door of an old brown wardrobe with scratched and peeling paint.  
  
"Check it out," he says.  
  
Coffee cans. At least two dozen of them, all with little yellow spot labels stuck next to the bar code.  
  
"Let's get these to the lab," I say.  
  
  
  
The sun is climbing into a clearing autumn sky as we make our way toward Camp Parker, hidden in Little San Bernardino Mountains. The change in climate will feel good. Neither Jason nor I have much to say to each other. I feel completely wrung out, and I got more sleep than Jason did last night, so it's anybody's guess how he's feeling.  
  
I wonder if there's any other way things can go wrong for us. With Jerry killed by his Spectran handler, the only information we have is a vague location for the warehouse where the coffee originated, information that Zark could have given us just as easily and with a lot less blood.  
  
I shift in my seat in an attempt to get more comfortable and shudder as a chill hits me. Jason reaches over and puts his hand on my forehead.  
  
"You're burning up," he says, taking his hand back.  
  
"I'm okay."  
  
Jason slows down and pulls onto the shoulder of the road. Before I can ask what he's doing, he jumps out and goes to the rear of the car. The trunk lid goes up and I hear him rummaging around. After a few moments, the trunk slams shut and he returns with a navy blue wool blanket, which he hands to me.  
  
"Try to get some sleep. We're still an hour away from Parker," Jason advises. He looks over his shoulder and pulls back onto the deserted road.  
  
"If I go to sleep, who's going make sure you don't fall asleep behind the wheel? You've had less sleep than I have, Jason."  
  
"Yeah, but you're sick. I'm not," he says. "I'll be fine." I chuckle at hearing essentially my own words echoed. "Okay, I read you," Jason says. "At least try to rest."  
  
After a bit, fatigue and my cold win and I doze. It's an uncomfortable and restless doze, however. I'm aware of the hum of the tyres, of the radio, turned down low and the smooth sound of the engine. I'm aware enough to be grateful for the blanket as chills continue to wrack me. Jason yawns, and I know I should make conversation to help keep him alert, but I'm unable to escape the thick gauze dozing has wrapped around me.  
  
I must have fallen asleep at some point, because I start at the sensation of the car no longer moving. Warm bright sunlight floods in through the glass. I squint as I try to pull myself the rest of the way out of sleep, which is no easy task. I would much rather pull the blanket over my eyes and get a few more hours sleep despite my discomfort in the car.  
  
"We're here," Jason says as he opens his door.  
  
I bring the seat back into the upright position and scrub at my face. With the light no longer hurting my eyes, I open my door and step out of the car. I gaze up at the main building in front of which we parked. Birds tweet in the distance and there are no traffic sounds. It feels like home.  
  
Princess opens the door for us as we approach. "You look how I feel," I say.  
  
"Gee, Commander. You really know how to flatter a girl."  
  
Jason and I step inside. "How's the Chief doing?" I ask.  
  
"Stable and making progress," Princess says as she leads us towards the kitchen. Her news does much to relieve the fears of the four year old residing in my subconscious. "There's toast and cereal in the kitchen if you want some, and Dr Kate's coming over to take a look at you."  
  
"I feel fine."  
  
"Don't mess with me, Commander," she orders.  
  
"Yes, ma'am," I answer, humbly.  
  
"The Chief's been asking after you," Princess says. "I think he'd like it if you went to see him."  
  
I swallow hard. I'm pensive about seeing him, whether or not from a sense of guilt, I'm unsure, but I couldn't feel more uncomfortable if faced with the prospect of seeing him laid out in a coffin. "Sure," I say. "Give me a little time to get my head together. It's been a rough... however many hours it's been."  
  
"That's an understatement," she says. "Go get some breakfast."  
  
As Jason and I finish eating, Kate Halloran arrives with her medical bag slung over her left shoulder. She and I retire to the parlour where she pulls the wooden sliding doors closed to give us some privacy. I take off my shirt and she proceeds to check my blood pressure, lungs, and eyes, ears, nose and throat. She asks me about symptoms: when they started and their intensity.  
  
"Well, Mark, it _appears_ you've gone and got yourself a chill," she states, and gives me a look that suggests she believes nothing of the kind. "Would it do me any good to tell you I think you should be grounded?"  
  
"No." Technically, Kate can take me off active duty. We both know this. We also both know that the only way to keep me from disobeying any such order that she might give me would be for her to not give it.  
  
"I didn't think it would," she smiles grimly. "Before I give you a shot that should relieve some of your symptoms, I need to ask you a question and I need you to be honest with me." She meets my eyes with the look I remember from when I was very small. She used to babysit me, sometimes, and she'd give me that look when she was telling me to eat my spinach or take my bath.  
  
"Go on," I prompt.  
  
"Both Chief Anderson and Gunnery Sergeant McAllister reported experiencing flu-like symptoms before their heart attacks hit. Your implants and your vaccinations ought to protect you from catching the 'flu. Did you drink any of that coffee in the last two months, Mark?"  
  
I look at the floor and hesitate to answer. After a moment's pause, I say, "I'm not a big fan of coffee. I've been at Headquarters for the past few weeks doing some research. I might have had six to ten cups of coffee in the last two weeks." I shift uncomfortably. "I was... out walking last night when a hailstorm hit, and I went to bed without drying off properly," I confess.  
  
Kate sighs. "There aren't generally a lot of pathogens in hail. All right, young man, I want to take a throat swab and a blood sample to compare to the others'. I should keep you here under observation."  
  
"You should, but you're not going to, doc. I have a madman to stop, and I can't do that by staying here."  
  
"And what good are you going to be to your team if you keel over of a heart attack in the middle of giving orders? I can tell Dave Anderson raised you. You're as stubborn as he is," she says, her observation pleasing me.  
  
"I'll take my chances. I'm much younger and in better shape than Gunny, and I have my cerebonic implants to help me."  
  
"You're crazy, Mark."  
  
"Is that your professional opinion, doc?" I ask with a dark smile. "As far as I'm concerned, I have a chill. Nothing more."  
  
"Sounds like the official line," Kate mutters, frowning.  
  
I feel my stomach clench into a knot. "More people are sick, aren't they?" I ask her.  
  
"Five administrative staff, six out of the thirteen officers on Chief Anderson's security detail, all sick this morning. Some worse than others, but no more critical cases, yet. Mark, I want you to rest. You'll be over-stressing yourself soon enough. And you better be right about your condition. If your blood test comes back positive for heartsbane, I'm grounding you. No ifs, no buts. Give me your arm." I obey, and she draws blood for analysis. "I'll page you when the pathology's back on your throat swab," Kate promises. "If it's just one of the common virii, you should be able to visit our Glorious Leader for a few minutes." She utters a short snort of contempt. "Missed his last round of shots," she grumbles, "but his immunity's still up and I've given him a booster. Just make sure he stays quiet."  
  
"Yes, ma'am," I agree.  
  
I go back to the kitchen, but Jason and Princess are gone. Just as well. Jason has been too in tune with me lately and I don't want him to pick up anything of what transpired between Kate and me. I grab a few slices of bread and head out to Lake Conway just like I used to do so many years ago when we vacationed here.  
  
The sun's warmth has intensified since I was out last. Most of the dew is gone and the building heat does a nice job of beating back my aches and pains. As I walk towards the lake, I'm struck by dozens of childhood memories. My eye quickly picks out changes; things that used to be and are no more, new equipment and landscaping, how some things are still there but much aged or weathered since I saw them last.  
  
I smile as I remember my daily routine from the early days of the G-Force programme. Up at the crack of dawn, quietly eat breakfast and then head down here to feed the ducks. All before anyone else in the house would be up.  
  
I take a deep breath, drawing in the smells of grass, flowers, ground, algae, decay; the sources are endless. I sit by the edge of the water, pick small pieces off my bread supply and toss them into the lake. The ducks squawk as they wriggle their way through the water in pursuit of the bounty.  
  
Tranquility descends upon me in a way I have not felt for a long time. My mind is at peace, I feel comfortable; I'm at home. So many good memories were created at Camp Parker. How could I have looked on my past with such consternation two days ago?  
  
Camp Parker is timeless in its effect upon me. I am ages four through ten simultaneously. So many memories of horseback riding, fishing, boating, playing capture the flag in the woods, swimming in the lake or pool, or just lying in a grassy meadow looking up at the clouds while soaking in the sun's rays. I can almost hear our childish laughter as Jason and I play keep away from Princess and Tiny. Oh, how we ganged up on them, and later how they ganged up on me.  
  
With my bread all gone, I get up and aimlessly roam the grounds. I try to push the past away and concentrate on the present. The Chief is still alive; he's recovering. I shouldn't let any more time pass without apologising for disowning him as my father. I must have hurt him terribly that day after all the things he's done for me. He took me in and raised me as his own after I lost my parents. I would have to be blind to deny that he favoured me over my team mates for quite some time, and he might still if I hadn't so completely shut him out.  
  
Tears threaten, but I push them back. The time for tears has passed. Tears are for when someone is dead and it's too late to put things right. It's not too late. I will find the courage to tell him how I feel, how my feelings have changed towards him.  
  
I glance at my watch and start back. When I get to my quarters, there's a manila folder on my chair. It's a report from Counter Espionage, addressed to me. What really gets my attention, though, is a copy of a maintenance report from Engineering, detailing the repairs to the _Phoenix._ Looks like we weren't the only ones putting in an all-nighter. Our ship's ready to go back into battle, but are we? I settle in and start leafing through the paperwork. **  
  
**


	8. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark is unwell. Has he been poisoned?

**Mark**  
  
Once the all-clear comes through from Kate, I make my way through the complex to the base medical facility. It's tiny compared to the one at Seahorse on the bay but it's equipped to deal with everything from hangovers and indigestion to heavy ordnance related trauma. I recognise several security officers and I realise the Chief's detail is back on deck. Roly Galbraith must have acted fast as soon as he got our report about Jerry.  
  
I can hear the Chief's voice coming from a room barely larger than a closet. He's complaining about something. "--Supposed to get anything done?" he grumbles.  
  
"That's the point, sir," replies a sharp voice. I stop in the corridor and peer in to see Major Jones closing the cover on the Chief's palm unit. She brandishes a tiny, glittering sliver that looks like an accessory or memory strip. "You can have this back when Dr Halloran says you're well enough," she tells him, and places the palm unit on his night stand next to a stack of scientific journals. "In the meantime, sir, you can make emergency calls, and this will be quite secure in the office safe." She makes a show of putting the memory card into a plastic holder and slipping it into her jacket pocket. "Oh, and by the way, sir," she adds, "Zark's under orders not to allow you to make any assisted calls out, either. Dr Halloran says you're to rest." I stifle a chuckle: Jones must have pulled the directory card out of his palm unit. Without it, he's effectively grounded.  
  
"Between you and Kate," Anderson snarls, "I'm going to recover in self defence."  
  
"That's the ticket, sir," the officer says, her tone dry. "Positive mental outlook and all that."  
  
I clear my throat and Jones half turns to see me standing there. "I can come back later," I suggest, half hoping they'll tell me I'm excused.  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," Anderson says. Jones steps aside for me, beckoning me in, then leaves the room. I hover just inside the doorway and take my first good look at Anderson since his attack. This can't be the Chief of Galaxy Security, not this man I see before me sitting up in bed in his pyjamas; not this man who is ashen faced and hollow eyed, oddly unfamiliar without his glasses. I mean, common sense should have told me not to expect the square shouldered, straight backed, impeccably groomed man I see at work, but somehow I was wholly unprepared for this. I suppose much of the shock could be attributed to hardly ever seeing him at leisure. Even growing up, I probably could count less than a dozen times I've seen him in something other than a suit. "I'm not dead, yet," he announces. His voice has lost some of its power, its authority. His words sting, all the same. He may have been hit hard physically by this, but his tendency to sarcasm remains intact.  
  
"I'm sorry," I manage. Somebody call Guinness. I actually made three apologies in the past twenty four hours. Hopefully, it's not a temporary fix. I might come to enjoy the sensation of burden being lifted from my shoulders every time I utter those two simple words.  
  
"What for?" he asks. "I hear you and Jason have been doing some good work." Good work indeed. Yes, Jason has and Princess have, but not me. If it weren't for the two of them, I'd still be at my shack. My covers would be over my head to repine the loss of my dad. I lower my head, wrap my arms around myself in an attempt to ward off any more self abusive thoughts, and take a step further into the room. I struggle to remember the 'script' I had planned while outside earlier. "What could you possibly have to be sorry for?" he asks. My mind whirls from what I originally came here to say to my behaviour since his heart attack to my lack of ability to assist when he collapsed, all that and so much more. I find it impossible to begin.  
  
"You want a list?" I manage at last.  
  
"If it'll help you get it off your chest."  
  
I approach the foot of his bed. The four year old in my subconscious is very much with me again as I shift my weight from foot to foot. I force myself to stop lest the Chief ask if I need to go to the bathroom.  
  
"I've been doing some thinking," I begin. I look at the tubes and wires that run from the Chief to the IV and other monitoring equipment. That's too painful to look at so I shift my gaze elsewhere. I'm not finding the words to continue. Instead, I fight for control of my emotions.  
  
"And... and I came to realise... all these years... how hard it must have been for you." I take a deep breath and hope that what I need to say comes out on exhale. If it doesn't, I'm very likely to bolt from the room.  
  
"You were never difficult," he says. "The hard part was keeping your father's secret."  
  
No, don't bring him into the picture. I don't want to talk about him. I need to talk about the father here before me, here, in this bed. That's what I came here to talk about if only I can find the words.  
  
"I could never understand how he could bear to give you up."  
  
I feel bitter resentment at the mention of that kept secret well up inside me, the very same resentment that formed the wedge between us. Maybe I haven't worked through my feelings nearly as well as I thought. The resentment is still there, but I no longer want it to control my life or my destiny. If I bridge the gap now, perhaps the Chief and I could work through my repressed feelings together.  
  
"I think perhaps," the Chief continued, "he was afraid that if he let himself get too close, he'd love you too much to be able to let go."  
  
"He had a funny way of showing it," I reply, part of that bitterness escaping me despite my intentions.  
  
"It wasn't your fault, Mark."  
  
Ah, the laying of blame. Where _does_ it belong? Logically, I know I was too young to be at fault. My _brain_ knows that, but my heart feels differently. For quite some time, I felt there must have been something horrible about me that made my father want to leave, just to get away from me. Part of me still insists that I wasn't good enough to make him want to stay.  
  
"There were other things," I hurry on. "There was a time when I said something really stupid."  
  
"Only once?" he asks. I recognise the Chief's attempt at levity, at humour, but I'm unable to share in the joke. I must get this out once and for all.  
  
"That time when I said to you that I wasn't your son." There. It's out. How will he respond? Will he laugh at me, pointing out that technically I am not his son and never will be? Will he remember precisely which memory is causing me pain? Will he accept my apology or will he reject me?  
  
"You seemed fairly convinced at the time."  
  
"I was wrong," I say. I can contain my emotions no longer. Fear and grief strangle me while my eyes fill with tears, but I find the courage to look him in the eye at last. I must convince him I am sincere in my desire to reconcile with him.  
  
"You raised me from the time I was four," I continue. "You were my family, and I kept chasing after shadows, kept looking for my father in all the wrong places." I step around to the side of his bed and hastily bring a chair up beside him as close as I can get. I take his hand in both of my hands and say, "And all the time, you were right here, Dad." I have my head bowed over his hand. I must look as if I'm praying over him. I think I am, too. I'm praying for his forgiveness, for a second chance to be his son. He blinks back tears of his own and I remember how it was when my birth father left, how he was my anchor, how he let me into his life with no idea how to raise a kid but doing the best he could, regardless. I remember how when I was five, and the anniversary of my father's disappearance came up, I asked him if he would ever go away like my father had, and he promised he'd never abandon me. All at once, my fears drain away. "Thank you," I whisper.  
  
  
  
**Chief Anderson**  
  
_First, do no harm._  
  
As these children grew, as I betrayed my sacred trust and had them implanted with the fledgling cerebonic technology without their knowledge or consent, as war drew ever closer, I shut myself off.  
  
I shut them out, and I shut out my own Self, leaving behind an empty place -- I can feel it, just underneath my heart -- where Hell's fire burns. It's an empty, hollow ache that I carry with me constantly, the ghosts of what might have been howling their condemnation in my ears every moment of every day... Sometimes, I can close my ears to them.  
  
My son's tears quench the flames. Was Cronus right? Do I really have another chance?  
  
For a long time, Mark and I sit quietly, and we talk of small things, then of larger, but no less immediate matters, until Princess taps at the door and leads the rest of the team inside. They gather around my bed, barely able to fit into this cramped little broom closet of a room and for a moment, I'm content.  
  
Jason's appraisal whips out across the room and he is seemingly aware of everything. He raises an eyebrow at Mark, which prompts him to stand, and assume his place as commander.  
  
"With Jerry dead," he summarises, for my benefit, no doubt, "the lab conducted a complete analysis of the contaminated coffee and its packaging. Tests showed that the cans weren't tampered with in any way. That coffee was poisoned at some stage before the cans were sealed at the factory. We feel that it may have been doctored here on Earth, because anyone importing coffee in the quantities they were using -- how many cans did you say, Tiny?"  
  
"Forty eight," Tiny replies stoically. "That we know of."  
  
"Four dozen cans of coffee being imported to Earth, the Galaxy's biggest and best -- and just about only -- coffee producer, would have raised suspicion. Nevertheless, we had Zark run a check of all the customs records for the last three years, and there were no such imports recorded."  
  
"Good thinking," I remark, "all of you."  
  
"The brand in question comes from Kenya," Mark continues, "but it's packaged right here in Center City. Now, we know that the poison, heartsbane, is extremely rare in nature, but a check by the forensic people told us that it contains compounds that would set off a biodecontamination sensor at any major spaceport if it was carried in the kinds of quantities needed to poison forty eight cans of coffee. The toxicologists think the heartsbane was synthesised, so they gave the spectrophotometry results to Zark and asked him to reverse engineer the recipe. We found a company that purchased the ingredients for do-it-yourself heartsbane three months ago. Guess who and where?"  
  
"A coffee merchant in Center City," Jason concludes. "Surprise, surprise."  
  
"So what's your next move, Mark?" I ask.  
  
"We've got their number," he says grimly. "Repairs to the _Phoenix_ are complete, with the exception of Princess' Galacticycle, I'm afraid." He gives Princess a rueful smile. "All the engineers had time to do was to fix the wing and close the G-3 circuit. They'll have your new bike ready in four days, but for now, we've got a job to do." He turns back to me and indicates his team with an expansive gesture. "Say hello to the health inspectors from hell."  
  
I nod. "Give Zoltar my regards," I bid him. "Good luck, team."  
  
  
  
**Mark**  
  
"Five minutes until we reach the warehouse," Tiny advises as he throttles back the controls of the _Phoenix_.  
  
"Okay, Tiny," I say. "You're going to let us off on the roof and then hang out of sight until we call for you."  
  
"Left behind..."  
  
"Tiny," I say sternly.  
  
"Yes, sir," Tiny responds gloomily.  
  
"Okay people, let's go over it," I call to the others. "Once inside, stay out of sight and observe only. I want to confirm this warehouse is Spectra's base of operations before we start tearing the place up."  
  
"But Mark, all our data points to it as the supplier," Princess says.  
  
"Yes, but if the place is a front, there could be innocent people in there who really think they're working for a coffee merchant. Collateral damage is the last thing we need."  
  
"I thought it came bundled with the package," Jason mutters darkly.  
  
We're close enough to the city that our destination is viewable on the screen. Fortunately, the industrial park is in the flight path of Center City's major airport. No one inside the warehouse should be alerted by the sound of the _Phoenix_ when it flies over to drop us off. I step to the centre of the bridge and the others join me. We're hydraulically lifted to the dorsal access dome. Once in position, the clear dome opens and the two halves retract into the fuselage, allowing the wind to hit us full blast.  
  
We crouch, partly in preparation to launch ourselves at our target, partly to steady ourselves against the wind's apparent desire to sweep us off our perch. Princess glances at me with a look of concern, about our mission or about me, I don't know which. If it's over me, hopefully it's because I'm trying to run the show while impaired by the flu and not because Zoltar has poisoned me and I might suffer the same fate as McAllister and Anderson at any time. I asked Kate to keep that a secret, but she might have confided in Princess so at least one person would know how to respond if I keel over.  
  
I tear my gaze away and concentrate on the position of the approaching warehouse. The four of us leap almost simultaneously. Jason gets off a little before us and allows himself to drop at a faster rate, which brings him to the roof first. He looks up at us and takes a few steps to align himself to where I will land. He obviously intends to spot my landing like we used to do in training.  
  
I alight on the roof, but slightly lose my balance and take an extra step to compensate. Okay, so the judges will have to give me a 9.2 instead of a 9.8 for performance. Jason's hands are right there to steady me, but I push them away.  
  
"I appreciate your concern everyone," I say, "but when I need your help, I'll ask for it."  
  
"Sure you will," Jason replies, "and in the meantime, we'll all do a little extra to make sure you stay safe. Under normal circumstances Kate would never allow you to be here, _Commander_."  
  
I don't comment on Jason's observation, because it's within his power to declare me medically unfit to lead and step in as acting commander. He's never had to do it before, but I don't doubt the sincerity of his implied threat. Instead, I turn and proceed to the roof's access door.  
  
7-Zark-7 provided us with the floor plans the contractor had filed with the township. We went over every inch of them and did our best to memorise their layout. We're about to find out if the inside matches what we're expecting.  
  
The warehouse has four levels, two above ground and two below. That specification alone makes for suspicion. This close to the ocean, it's a difficult task to build too far below ground. Why would a coffee warehouse purposely incur the additional expense from such an arrangement? The top floor is indicated as storage space. It wraps around the outside edge of the building and is ten feet wide, acting almost as a huge wrap around balcony to the ground level, another strange arrangement. Pallet rack systems are only four tiers high, much lower than the height provided in the center of the ground floor. The underground levels are indicated as offices, conference rooms, employee lunchroom and facilities. It would have been a lot more feasible to place those levels on top than underground. We're sure to find a hidden Spectra base inside this building, but I don't want to make the assumption and be wrong.  
  
"Look... at this!" Keyop calls out.  
  
"What is it?" Princess asks. I look back to find out what Keyop found.  
  
"Looks like... roof...separates!"  
  
Jason and I approach the crack Keyop is standing over. I get down on my hands and knees to inspect it more closely. Two riveted metal edges run almost the full length of the roof directly down the center. Now that I'm looking more closely, I can see where the normal roof ends and a hatch begins.  
  
"Princess, would you say this opening is about the same size as the open area in the middle of the ground floor?" I ask.  
  
She looks carefully at the size before responding. "It's pretty close," she answers. "I didn't look too carefully at the roof plan except to note a normal access door for us to enter, but I think I would have noticed if this was on it."  
  
"I don't remember it either," I say. Jason continues to study where the hatch and roof meet.  
  
"Added... later," Keyop says.  
  
Going over to him, I ask, "How can you tell?"  
  
Our smallest team member pulls away some of the flashing to reveal the structural steel beneath. It's obvious that the steel used to construct the hatch support is newer than the building steel. The workmanship between the two is also as different as it would be between a professional erection crew and amateurs in a hurry.  
  
"If we find coffee inside this place, I'll give up racing," Jason says.  
  
"No, you won't," I counter.  
  
We head back to the others and proceed with our plan to enter via the roof access door. Surprisingly, the door isn't locked. We silently descend the stairs, which ends in a short hallway with another closed door. I signal the others to be prepared as I check the door. The knob turns freely so it, too, is unlocked. A little siren is sounding inside my mind, but it's far away and mute. Whatever it's trying to tell me isn't coming through.  
  
I signal the team again, and pull the door open. "Scatter!" I yell back to them. I opened the door to twenty or more green uniformed Spectran soldiers with automatic rifles pointed directly at us. My order to the team also serves to bring them to action. They begin firing at the doorway. Princess and Keyop are behind Jason and me so they are able to jump straight back up the stairwell. Jason and I are forced to jump out and over the soldiers' heads, but at least we draw their fire away from the doorway, which allow Princess and Keyop to drop back down.  
  
While we're in the air over their heads, Jason rains feathers down on them. I send my sonic boomerang out and clip a row of four goons. We land on the far side of them, and they continue to fire without adjusting for the fact that now some of their own men are in front of them. At least six more drop, killed by their own stupidity. I have to wonder where Zoltar recruits these guys or at least who is responsible for their extremely poor training.  
  
I catch my boomerang and send it out again. Princess and Keyop come up behind the increasingly smaller group and let loose with their yo-yo and bolas. It doesn't take long to overwhelm the remaining few.  
  
"Hey, Mark? I'm not sure, but I think Spectra may be using this warehouse as a base," Jason quips.  
  
"Right," I mutter. "Jason, you and Keyop get down to the lower levels and plant your explosives. Princess and I will cover the upper two levels."  
  
"Come on, squirt, it's you and me today," Jason says to Keyop. Then he jumps over the side rail to the ground floor and runs out of sight. Keyop races to catch up.  
  
"Princess, I want to get this done as quickly as possible. You take this level and I'll take the ground floor."  
  
"I'm not sure we should separate, Mark."  
  
I shake my head. "I'm okay, Princess. Honest." I fall back on humour to try and convince us both. "I've got blood results to prove it," I tell her with a grin.  
  
"Cerebonics can mask blood results," she says.  
  
"Then let's get the job done so I can go home and put my feet up," I say, and vault over the handrail. I falter in my landing. The judges in my mind give me an 8.9 for it. When I'm down to 6.8, I'll admit I'm in trouble. I recover and head for the door at the far end of the room. I open it to another squadron bearing down on my position.  
  
"Tiny, time for you to join the game," I call into my wristband.  
  
" _Big ten. On my way_ ," he replies.  
  
I have enough time to plant several of my explosives before the soldiers get close enough to pelt me with bullets. I turn my cape towards them and duck my head behind it to deflect the slugs. For the most part, we're only vulnerable in the face if we forget or are unable to keep our face shields at the proper angle to our bodies. Unfortunately, our uniforms don't prevent the pain we feel from bullets bouncing off so we still try to get shot as little as possible.  
  
I leap, do a forward somersault in the air, and come down in the middle of the group. I grab two men by the nape of the neck and bring their skulls together. A familiar crunching noise tells me they won't give me any more problems. I try not to grimace.  
  
The media has made numerous so-called documentaries about us to honour our heroism, our sacrifice for the galaxy. What they show disturbs me. They tone down the truth of the violence to the point that our jobs look glamorous and fun. I see children pretending to be us while firing imaginary guns on their playmates. I often want to stop them and explain the massacre that results every time we engage the enemy, but no child should have to know those terrors. No child should be subjected to that kind of gore. In fact, no adult should, either. We may look as if what we deal with doesn't affect us, but it does. In our dreams, at moments of leisure, sometimes when we least expect it, it affects us. We live with our actions every day. On the battlefield, our training overcomes our emotions, but that doesn't mean we're used to it, numb to it at times, but never used to it.  
  
One soldier tries to grab me from behind, but I take hold of his arm and use his momentum against him. I'm able to flip him over my shoulder and land him on top of three goons that are rushing towards me.  
  
If I was winded before, I'm literally panting now. My lungs feel tight, the way I imagine they might for an asthmatic. There's no way I'm going to be able to handle the remainder of the soldiers. I leap vertically and launch my boomerang to take out half a dozen men. A backwards flip should bring me to the outside of their circle and give me clearance to run, but halfway through the flip vertigo betrays me and instead of landing on my feet, I land on my back. The soldiers don't hesitate to circle around me again and hold their guns on me at point blank range. I angle my face shield to protect my face and brace myself for the impact of their bullets, because it's quite possible that some of them will penetrate at this range.  
  
"Mark!" I hear Princess call as she drops down before me. She has her yo-yo in one hand and a fist full of feather darts in the other. The soldiers scatter before her, those in the rear falling with white quills embedded in their backs. For a moment, I'm afraid that she too might be overtaken by the soldiers still coming at us, but then the building trembles from an explosion on one of the lower levels. The goons are suddenly no longer interested in us. Instead, they're running away to find safety.  
  
"We're under attack!" one soldier yells on his way past us. What were we? Chopped liver? Princess kneels beside me to check for injuries. I ignore her probing hands.  
  
"Keyop, Jason, come in. What happened?" I say into my wristband. "Are you okay?"  
  
" _We're all right, skipper_ ," Jason returns. " _We were ambushed and one of the happiness boys was dumb enough to hit a planted explosive with a bullet._ "  
  
"Copy," I say. "Head back to the _Phoenix_. Princess and I'll be up shortly."  
  
" _Big ten. Out_."  
  
I halt Princess's hands from further inspection and hold them in my own. I still haven't tried to sit up or stand. I'm waiting for my heartbeat to stop racing before I attempt it.  
  
"Can you get up?" she asks.  
  
"Yeah, just give me a minute. Were you finished with your level?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Okay. Three out of four's going to have to be enough. Let's get out of here before we run into more trouble," I say as I carefully roll over and bring myself to my hands and knees. Once standing, I don't feel nearly as bad as I thought I would.  
  
"You worry me, Mark," Princess says, steadying me with a hand on my arm.  
  
"Yeah, I worry me too, sometimes," I say in an attempt to crack a joke. She doesn't find me humorous.  
  
"There's something you're not telling me," she persists.  
  
"We have to get going."  
  
"Thought so," she says. She leaps back up to the fourth floor and waits for me to join her before running for the roof access stairwell. As we gain the roof, the building starts to shake violently beneath our feet.  
  
"That's not our explosives," I say. "What is it?" We race across the roof before springing up to the _Phoenix_. I don't wait for the hydraulic lift to finish lowering before jumping down and rushing towards the screen to find out what's happening.  
  
"That hatch in the roof is opening," Jason tells me.  
  
"Oh, no," I say softly. "Oh, crap." My concern is justified once the hatchway opens wide enough to reveal the anteater ship that got away from us in Antarctica.  
  
Jason glares at it. If looks could kill, that ship would be a mangled husk on the ground. "It's not getting away this time," he declares, and reaches for the missile firing controls.  
  
"Whoa, Jason! Hold your fire!" I tell him. "We're in the middle of the city. Let's use some common sense! If that thing doesn't make it out before our explosives bring down the building, it'll go up, too and flatten half the industrial park. Princess, how long before our explosives go off?"  
  
"Thirty five seconds," she answers.  
  
"Come on, you ugly shoe brush," I tell the anteater.  
  
Everyone crowds behind Tiny and me to look at the viewer.  
  
Thirty five seconds seems to stretch out for an eternity as we anxiously watch the slow progress of the anteater's ascent.  
  
"Take us upstairs, Tiny," I order.  



	9. To Kill an Ant Eater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Has Mark pushed himself too far?

**Mark**  
  
Our explosives detonate and the building crumbles downward in demolition fashion, its demise a tribute to this team's skill at making things fall down and go 'boom!' with near-surgical precision. The echidna visibly shudders and rocks over the wake, but doesn't become the disastrous fireball I'd feared. After a few moments, it's flying low over the city. I expel a huge breath of air, not realizing I'd been holding it.  
  
"Okay, now what?" Jason asks.  
  
"One of us is going to have to board that thing and find a way to grab the vitalumis, or take control and land it."  
  
"I'll go," Jason offers.  
  
"I'll handle this one," I say, but Jason is already standing on the hydraulic lift.  
  
"I don't think so," he says. "Tiny, be prepared to shoot it down at my command."  
  
"Jason --" I start.  
  
"Mark," Princess says, "please don't argue. Are you going to be okay, Jase?" She gets out of her seat as though to join him on the platform.  
  
Jason does his Bogart impression, which isn't really all that good: "I work alone, shweetheart."  
  
"Not today, you don't," Princess says. "Mark's sick because his cerebonics are occupied dealing with the poison from the coffee at Headquarters, otherwise, the virus'd never have had a chance to get a foothold. You haven't spent as much time at the Tower as Mark but you've been there, and I know you: you always get a cup of coffee."  
  
"I'm okay," he says, "and I'll stay okay. I'm not trying to fight off a case of the 'flu, remember? I'll do better on my own."  
  
"I don't like this," Princess says.  
  
"None of us do," I say, "but Jason's right: he does do better on his own. Get us in close, Tiny." I glance at the altimeter. We're climbing up past six thousand feet. "Don't let it get too high," I warn. Thin air and our cape wings don't mix. Neither do thin air and lungs, and if we've all been drinking that tainted coffee, we could all be compromised. "You'd better be okay," I tell Jason. He smiles grimly and the lift platform ascends, taking him from our sight.  
  
I turn back to the viewer and close my eyes for a moment. The last several days, I've made some bad calls and used bad judgement Jason probably just saved me from another mistake. I try to embrace that thought while I struggle with my wounded pride. But I still have another decision to make, lure the anteater over the ocean or empty land? If the vitalumis comes into contact with seawater, it'll dissolve and we might as well let Zoltar have it.  
  
"If only we'd stopped it in Antarctica in the first place," I say softly. "Tiny, let's see if we can get that thing's attention and lure it out over open ground."  
  
"Okay," Tiny says. "I hope Jason's ready for a rough ride."  
  
I don't answer him. Instead I keep my eyes on the viewer and say a silent prayer for by best friend's safe keeping. If the anteater is as well manned as the warehouse was, he'll have his hands full. I lean forward and send a couple of heat seeking rockets at the anteater. The Spectrans fire a countermeasure. There's no damage, but it's enough to turn the anteater in our direction. Tiny banks the _Phoenix_ east and stays just ahead of it.  
  
"Keep 'em busy, Tiny!" I admonish, and run aft to launch my jet.  
  
When I launch from the _Phoenix,_ there's always that sickening moment of free fall when my machine is being held up by pure inertia, then I let the nose drop and the lift takes hold of her wings. I pour on the power and arc around toward the anteater.  
  
A volley of missiles is fired in my direction, but I'm ready for them. My head spins with the plane as I put her through a tight victory roll to bring the nose around and hit the rockets with my nacelle mounted laser gun. I'm expecting the disorientation, though, and I keep my focus on my instruments the way I was trained.  
  
A tiny winged figure glides across from the _Phoenix_ to the anteater's head section. I bring the jet around for another mock attack run.  
  
There's a click and a hiss from my bracelet as Tiny opens a channel. " _They're powering up their engines,_ " he announces.  
  
"Not if I have anything to say about it," I predict. I shoot down another three rockets, dodge two more, which Tiny takes out behind me, then drop down underneath the anteater to fire at their engines.  
  
" _Skipper,_ " Jason's voice sounds over my communicator, " _I'm in_."  
  
"Get that vitalumis!" I urge.  
  
Refined vitalumis comes in tiny concentrated pellets. An ordinary briefcase can contain enough to terraform a continent. It's dissolved in water then seeded into soil in minute concentrations and does something that it takes molecular organic chemists about three university blackboards to explain. Our old team mate, Don Wade, knew how it worked. He could never simplify the explanation enough for me to get it, though. Whatever the details, vitalumis makes it possible to remove of toxins, heavy metals and pollutants from soil, making dead land viable again. If it's still in its purified state, Jason should be able to grab it and bring it back.  
  
I continue my deadly dance with the anteater for several minutes, dodging its rockets and wondering just how many of the darned things it has to throw at me. Tiny keeps herding the anteater and me away from the city and the suburbs, so that when we take the alien ship down, we do as little harm as possible to civilian interests.  
  
"Zark," I say over a tele-comm channel, "can you patch me through to the anteater's comm?"  
  
" _Roger, Commander_ ," Zark says, and complies. The tiny screen in my cockpit illuminates to reveal an outlandish figure. I can only assume it's a male. He's clad in a skin-tight yellow bodysuit with jagged black stripes. Most of his face is hidden behind a helmet that is jet black and shiny. He has a black cape draped over his shoulders. I wonder if he's supposed to be some kind of strange yellow jacket, and if he is, why a bee would be chosen to command a hedgehog. I have to clear my throat to keep from laughing.  
  
"Anteater Commander, don't you want another stab at bringing us down?"  
  
" _You are not our concern, G-Force_ ," he replies in a whip-thin voice. " _Our world needs this soil resuscitator as badly as any of the worlds in your Federation. What you will not share, we will take by force_!"  
  
"Perhaps your leaders should consider opening a dialogue for a peace treaty so that your world could acquire vitalumis legally. We're only protecting ourselves from your hostile actions."  
  
" _I'll pass your suggestion along_ ," he answers with a smirk on his lips. " _In the meantime, we'll take this load along as an offer of good will_."  
  
"Surrender the vitalumis and your vessel now, or we'll force you down!"  
  
" _I don't think so, G-Force. You won't destroy us or you'll lose the vitalumis anyway. So you see, you might as well let us have it. I promise it will be put to good use_."  
  
What's taking Jason so long? He can't have been detected or captured otherwise Mr Yellow Jacket would be gloating about it. If he doesn't hurry up, he may find himself on a one way trip to Spectra.  
  
Princess signals me. " _Mark,_ " Princess says. " _They're powering up again!"_ I bring the jet in fast, firing my guns to neutralise the rockets that streak toward me. One of them locks on to my exhaust and I retreat, then execute a fast chandelle to see a heat-seeker shoot past my port wing. I take it out with a blast of laser fire.  
  
I glare at the anteater ship. "Catch me if you can," I mutter, and line up to make an attack run on what I presume to be the control centre in the head of the anteater.  
  
" _Jason's still aboard that thing,_ " Princess says.  
  
" _Would you two keep it down_?" I hear Jason's voice dropped to a whisper. " _How's a person supposed to sneak around an enemy ship with you mouthing off all the time_?"  
  
I open a channel to the _Phoenix_. "Tiny, fire six heat-seekers at the anteater Target her propulsion systems."  
  
" _What about Jason?_ " Tiny protests, stricken.  
  
"Do it, Tiny," I say, softly. "While we still have a chance of keeping that thing on this planet."  
  
There's a moment's white noise while Tiny takes a breath. " _Locked on target_ ," he says. " _Firing._ " I tip the G-1 jet on its side and slice downward, away from the _Phoenix's_ fire. The missiles pass overhead and I bring the jet up and around to fire my lasers at the anteater's countermeasures. Two of the six heat-seekers hit home and the anteater lurches like a wounded animal. Thick, heavy black smoke begins to trickle from the exhausts.  
  
I begin signalling for Jason to respond by pressing the face of my wristband communicator. I don't want to give away his position, but I have to know what's going on over there. Has he been captured? Was he in the proximity of the blast? Why hasn't he signalled us before now? I get no response, but that doesn't mean too much. He may not be looking at his wristband to see it blink mutely.  
  
There's an incoming signal from the anteater. I open a channel to see the Spectran commander I've mentally dubbed Mr Yellow Jacket smirking at me from under his mask. " _If you intend to take us out, you'd better improve your aim, G-Force_ ," he chuckles snidely.  
  
"Who says I'm trying to take you out?" I parry. "You're not my type. You have something of ours, however. Surrender, and you can see out the war in a nice, comfortable prison camp."  
  
" _Foolish boy! You'll never defeat Spectra!_ "  
  
"Change tracks," I suggest. "I've heard that song before."  
  
" _How 'bout this one?_ " I hear Jason's voice, sounding distant to the pickups. " _I hereby surrender unconditionally to the Intergalactic Federation of Peaceful Planets."_  
  
" _G-Force!_ " Mr Yellow Jacket spins around. Jason's out of the frame but the Spectran commander lunges away from the comm unit, I hear gunfire and a uniformed soldier collapses onto the floor in full view of the comm pickup. Blood seeps from beneath his body to pool on the floor.  
  
A barrage of missiles is launched at me and I fire, taking evasive action. I tense against the vertigo that makes me feel as though I'm spinning the G-1, but the artificial horizon tells me I'm only at thirty degrees of bank, so I level out and fire again. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the _Phoenix_ turning clear of two missiles. I go in after the ordnance, firing to destroy them before they can damage our command ship.  
  
There are screams coming from the tele-comm but I daren't look. My priority has to be saving the _Phoenix._ My targeting computer locks on to the last missile and I fire. It explodes in a black and orange blossom of fire.  
  
Another explosion claims my attention: the anteater is trailing billows of black smoke and pitches nose down. I activate my wrist comm. "Jason! Report!"  
  
" _I have control of the bridge,_ " Jason says, " _but something's broke up here. I'm trying to steer it somewhere it won't do a lot of damage when it hits._ "  
  
"Get out of there, Jason!" I order him.  
  
" _That's definitely on my 'to do' list,_ " he says, and disappears from the viewer.  
  
I close the channel and switch to my wrist comm. "Jason, you're too low. You're at five thousand feet and falling. Get off of that thing, now!"  
  
I can hear him running as he speaks into his communicator. " _I figure she's going to hit a couple of clicks to the south east. Looks like farmland under rehabilitation. The Conservation Council's going to be so ticked."_  
  
"We can discuss that later! Abandon ship!"  
  
" _All right, already! Quit yakking and I'll go faster!_ "  
  
Tiny and I formate on the anteater, following her final descent. Her engines screech and howl. The sound is almost deafening. Dense black smoke issues from the aft section.  
  
Two escape pods launch and I'm obliged to jink and swerve out of the way of one of them. It's the last straw for the anteater. It nose dives toward the ground. Tiny and I are forced to break off. "Come on, Jason. Get out of there," I say to myself. I open a channel. "Jason? Ears on? Can anyone see Jason?"  
  
There's another explosion aboard the anteater. The ship hits the ground with a massive concussion which throws up a cloud of dirt and dust. I climb above it. The last thing I need is an engine flame out. There's a series of blasts as the missiles explode. Unprogrammed, uncontrolled ordnance spirals up from the crashed ship and falls earthward again.  
  
Several hundred yards to my port side, Tiny has the _Phoenix_ lining up for a docking procedure. " _Come on back, Mark_ ," he says. I turn the jet and set her up to dock. Once I'm back aboard, we circle at a safe distance until the explosions stop, calling Jason on all channels every few seconds, to no avail. Our communicators remain silent.  
  
Tiny sets us down and we cluster in silent grief on the elevator platform. Tiny activates the lift and we rise up to the top of the ship. The dome opens and we glide down to stand and stare at the ship's grave.  
  
"He said he'd be okay," Princess whispered. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. We can't get any closer to the downed ship. Flames are shooting thirty feet into the air and I can feel the heat beating at us from here.  
  
I head towards a line of trees to our right. The trees offer some shelter and there's nothing we can do until rescue crews arrive to put out the fire. The others follow me. Once under the trees, Tiny and Keyop are doing their own sniffling. I keep my eyes on the hull searching for any signs of life inside. A sharp pain stabs at my chest as I consider the possibility that Jason didn't make it. The anteater is barely recognisable and no Spectran soldiers are emerging.  
  
I swear I can almost hear Jason berating me.  
  
"Did you hear something?" Tiny asks, and turns around. In the distance, a dark shape is trudging over the fields, lugging a silvery container of some kind.  
  
"Hey!" it calls, its voice small with distance and the sound of the burning Spectran ship.  
  
"Jason?" Princess gasps. " _Jason!_ " she sprints toward him. Keyop is only a half pace behind her. I stand there, stunned, too happy to move.  
  
"You coming, or what?" Tiny asks me. He starts walking and I follow him, head spinning.  
  
We form up, five again, in the middle of the fallow field. Jason drops the drum of vitalumis he's been carrying. Irritably, he smacks his wristband. The face is cracked. "Would you believe the darned comm circuit quit on me?" he grumbles. "I must've walked about two clicks with this thing before you guys even noticed I'm still alive!"  
  
The sound of approaching turbine engines from the air and sirens from the ground heralds the arrival of ISO rescue and cleanup crews.  
  
I place a hand on Jason's shoulder to steady us both, and say in a slightly choked voice, "You idiot."  
  
"Yeah, well, you'd be the best judge of that, wouldn't you?" he replies. We grin at each other.  
  
  
  
My eye tracks the path of the ping-pong ball that bounces between Jason and myself. After docking the _Phoenix_ and taking showers, instead of going home, getting rest or returning to Camp Parker, the team and I came here to the Ready Room. I suppose it's our way of unwinding or maybe it's our way of celebrating the defeat of the anteater.  
  
Perhaps it's just our way of being a family. I miss the ball and I have time to view the people that grew up with me. A few days ago, I lamented the loss of my birth family, the loss of a future that might once have been and now never will be. The realisation of that life would have meant never knowing these people who are so dear to me and who know me better than anyone in the galaxy.  
  
I wonder if they feel that way too. After all, they're here spending time together when they could be at home in warm beds getting much needed rest.  
  
"Yo, Skipper, you gonna wake up to receive my serve, or am I gonna score a cheap point off you?" Jason asks with a smirk.  
  
I smile at him. "Serve it up, ace," I reply. My mind is no longer on the game, and I think he knows it. I glance at Princess and feel a familiar pang in my ribcage at the sight of her. Wrong move, because I miss an easy lob I should have been able to spike back at Jason. He laughs, clearly having set me up.  
  
Princess stops playing her guitar and after a few more beats, Keyop stops playing his drums. I heave an inward sigh of relief that he doesn't go into one of his drum solos. He must be too tired.  
  
"Well, guys," Princess yawns, "I'm beat, and I'm going home. I want to get up early tomorrow to drive back out to Camp Parker."  
  
"Why don't you sleep in and I'll fly you out early afternoon," I offer.  
  
"Thanks, but there's not enough room. Keyop's coming with me."  
  
"Then at least let Tiny take you in the _Phoenix_ ," I implore. "You both need rest. I'm sure the Chief will be okay without us for a few more hours."  
  
"Sorry," Tiny says, "but I promised a friend I'd help him get his new boat in the water tomorrow. I won't be free until evening."  
  
"That's okay, Tiny," Princess replies. "Keyop and I will be just fine. Will all of you be able to come out for supper? It'll be like old times." The idea is music to my ears.  
  
"I'll be there," I say.  
  
"Just as long as you're not making clam chowder," Jason says. "That kind of trip down memory lane, I don't need." Princess gives him a look, but we can tell there's nothing behind it. She's a good cook, but everyone has their off days, and none of us have ever let her live down the Clam Chowder Microwave Disaster of 'Sixty One. "Well, Mark," Jason adds, "I'll take that offer of a flight out. I've had enough driving for a few days."  
  
"Somehow, being crammed into the cockpit of my plane with you wasn't exactly what I had in mind," I complain. Princess blushes and I regret my words. I try to send her an apology with my eyes, which I think she receives, because she throws me a little wave of the hand, which hopefully means, 'don't worry about it'.  
  
Soon, everyone exchanges good nights and Tiny, Princess and Keyop leave Jason and me alone in the Ready Room.  
  
"One more game?" he asks, picking up his paddle.  
  
"My mind isn't on it."  
  
"And here I thought the distraction just left," he observes.  
  
"Ha ha," I say, at that moment feeling glum.  
  
"Mark, why don't you..."  
  
"I don't need another lecture about my feelings for Princess, Jason."  
  
Jason smiles. "Well, you must be feeling more like yourself. Now you're reading my thoughts."  
  
"Nah, I just know you too well," I say, picking up my own paddle. "Okay, hot shot, serve so I can whip your butt and go home completely happy."  
  
"In your dreams," he retorts.  
  
We begin a volley, not really competing, just sending the ball back and forth to each other.  
  
"Yeah, I feel better than I have in a while," I muse, more to myself than to Jason. "I have you to thank for it," I say to him.  
  
"Me?"  
  
"After the way I treated you; the names I called you and trying to punch your lights out. Instead of retaliating, you followed me home to make sure I was okay, then you made me confront a few home truths."  
  
"Yeah, well, don't go all mushy on me," he says. We finish up and put the paddles away with the ping pong ball. "See you tomorrow," Jason says as he leaves.  
  
I go over to Tiny's chair and sit down heavily. Up until now, I felt better than I have since my flu started. Now I feel like somebody opened an invisible valve on my ankle and let all my energy drain out through my feet. It was stupid of me to go out in that thunderstorm and then sleep without drying off properly: if I hadn't, I might have been able to cope the way the others did. The whole team is booked in for checkups in a couple of days to ensure our systems are clear of any toxins. My eyes close and I yawn. I should probably get some rest...  
  
  
  
I open my eyes to see a white ceiling. I'm lying in a bed. I can see handrails on either side. I'm on a gurney in the cerebonic lab. _Did I have a heart attack?_ I wonder to myself. Bob Halloran enters the room.  
  
"Doc --" I begin.  
  
"Ah, you're finally awake. You had us jumping, last night."  
  
"Did I...?" I can't bear to finish the question.  
  
"No, Commander, you didn't have a heart attack." Halloran walks over and consults the chart hanging at the foot of my bed. "It's called exhaustion, and it's not supposed to happen to G-Force members. Your cerebonics went close to overload dealing with a dose of heartsbane, a viral infection and all the pressure of the last few days along with a difficult mission."  
  
"How'd I end up here?"  
  
"Jason came back into the ready room and found you out like a light. He tried to wake you, couldn't, and called a team. Mark, you really put yourself at an unacceptable level of risk, this time out."  
  
"I'm sorry," I tell him. I'm getting pretty good at this apology stuff.  
  
"Save it for Dr Galbraith, son," he says. "He's the one whose job it is to haul you over the coals. I'm only going to ground you. You're on restricted activity for the next four weeks."  
  
"How long is Kate keeping the Chief away from work?" I ask.  
  
"She's told him twelve weeks in the hope that he might settle for eight." He checks the monitoring equipment and smiles. "I really must speak to him about monopolising my wife's time," he mutters, and winks at me. "You get to stay here for another couple of hours while we finish detoxifying your system and replace some of your nanites, then I'm putting you on a transport to Camp Parker."  
  
"Sounds perfect," I say.  
  
  
  
**Chief Anderson**  
  
I didn't used to believe it was possible to entertain homicidal urges towards a robot, but the last two weeks have definitely changed my feelings on that score.  
  
If Zark tries one more time to cheer me up or offers another chicken soup recipe, I swear I'll requisition a screwdriver from Engineering and dismantle him, myself.  
  
Princess assures me this is a sign that I'm getting better.  
  
The medical team says I'll make what they call a "full recovery." A full recovery from a life-threatening heart attack, however, doesn't mean that I'll be as fit as I was before I was poisoned. My body has been damaged, and although my circulatory system can be restored, the scarring to my heart muscle will never go away. Zoltar may well have succeeded in shortening my life span, and I'll probably feel that legacy in my later years, providing I survive the more immediate dangers of the war, that is.  
  
And yet, even though I know that this may eventually be the death of me, it has been a blessing, in the form of one hell of a wake-up call.  
  
I'm talking more with the team, now, and more importantly, I'm listening to them. I even told them the truth about my condition, something I would never have countenanced a mere three weeks ago. In all the urgency and the necessity of being Chief of Galaxy Security, I had forgotten to be a father, and while I can never truly make it up to my family, I can at least make a start at redressing the balance. My children carry the burden of knowledge, now, but it's a burden they're entitled to.  
  
Why do we fight wars if not to protect who we are and how we live? I believed -- and still believe -- I was defending human values of honesty, integrity, freedom: the very things that help to make us who we are. And there I was, forgetting who I am, forgetting how I should live, neglecting the only family I have for the sake of some hard-assed concept of a "noble sacrifice."  
  
Just like Cronus.  
  
The tele-comm beeps with a priority signal from Nerve Center.  
  
"Go ahead," I say.  
  
" _Ah-hah... Chief Anderson..._ " Zark giggles nervously. " _I just thought I'd look in on you... and let you know that Jason has come to visit me... With a set of screwdrivers... and... uh... I... Oh! Oh, my!_ "  
  
Zark's voice slides an entire octave up the scale with alarm and smiling, I close the channel. **  
  
**


End file.
